Daylight
by Cherielynn
Summary: This is a sequel to "Good Old Fashioned Nightmare." John has fled to the US and is hiding from Mycroft and Sherlock. He's forged a new life for himself. He doesn't know the Holmes brothers are doing everything they can to track him down...


Daylight

cherielynn503

**Summary:**

This is a sequel to "**Good Old Fashioned Nightmare**." John has fled to the US and is hiding from Mycroft and Sherlock. He's forged a new life for himself. He doesn't know the Holmes brothers are doing everything they can to track him down...

Notes:

This story doesn't make sense unless you read the first part.

**Chapter 1**

John looked across the white, sand dunes with a sigh. The Autumn equinox brought with it a full moon that bathed the White Sands national monument in a silvery glow. The park stayed open until midnight on summer nights with a full moon. The pale orb hanging in the sky offered almost as much illumination as the sun as it reflected off the crystalline dunes. John had arrived in New Mexico six months prior to this evening just after his army friend, Trevor, had set him up with new identity papers and an American passport.

Trevor owed him a life debt that John had never thought he'd have to cash in on. On the day John received his bullet wound in Afghanistan, Trevor had been the man John had taken the bullet for. Trevor would have died had it not been for John's refusal to continue working on his life-threatening injury even though they were taking brutal, enemy fire. John, bent over Trevor's shock-shaken body, continued working on a gushing leg wound even though bullets flew over his head. He ignored his own safety and continued saving Trevor's life until a sniper's bullet shattered through the doctor's shoulder. Even through considerable pain, John finished administering life-saving first aid to Trevor before passing out from his own wound. Trevor had never forgotten Dr. John Watson's bravery and heroism that day.

After they'd both recovered, he'd given John a solemn handshake and said, "If you ever need anything from me, Doc, anything…. You let me know. I got connections…." He let the word hang there. "I can get you whatever you need. I'm just sayn', Doc, anything!" And, John believed him. He'd heard stories of what Trevor could acquire.

"Thanks, Trev," John said smiling. "I'll be sure to tell you if I do," and let the matter drop. Until the day he left Sherlock, he hadn't had an occasion to ever think of Trevor's offer. But, now the "anything" he needed was help getting away from Mycroft Holmes. As long as he stayed in the UK, he'd never be safe from the man who held a "minor" position in the British government.

He'd run into Trevor while working on a case a year after he met Sherlock. After catching up in the nearest pub, he found out the man had been discharged and living in London. He'd turned mercenary, something John suspected even when they'd served together, and now offered his services to the highest bidder. He'd had a small, militant crew he ran with. The best thing about Trevor was that Sherlock had never met him.

He'd contacted Trevor the day he ran from 221 Baker Street. True to his word, Trevor had not only set him up with a brand new identity, but even helped him acquire some much needed cash to finance his sudden emigration to the States. His new ID papers said he was now a 36 year-old named Jonathan Tennant. Trevor assured him that his forgeries were so well-done, he'd be able to get through airport security in both countries easily.

"Just got to work on that accent, mate. Maybe try for something bland and Midwestern, nothing too fancy like a Minnesota or North Dakota accent, you'd never be able to pull that off," Trevor told John after laughing and handing him the small bundle. "This is a new life, Doc. I hope it gets you out of whatever jam you're in."

"I'm grateful," John had told him. As far as his life-debt went, they were square.

During the week he'd been underground and waiting for his new papers, Trevor had even been able to get him some paying work. Since doctors in hospitals were required to report gunshot wounds to the police, John got some extra cash patching up some of Trevor's acquaintances who had been in an obvious gunfight. He'd repaired some ugly stab wounds and even treated a severe case of strep throat. "Almost don't want to lose you, Doc," Trevor said devilishly. "You'd be a great asset to our little operation."

John already felt uneasy accepting Trevor's help and didn't want to think too hard about who he'd just patched up. Knowing Trevor, his men hadn't come by their wounds honestly. But, John couldn't afford to be too picky now. He'd take what help he could get even if it meant doing some shady things. If he didn't get out of Mycroft's territory soon, he had no idea what retaliation he'd suffer for what he'd done to Sherlock. Mycroft would be furious with him. John didn't know if Moriarty would actually use the collar he'd placed around Sherlock's neck or just leave him handcuffed to the chair. He'd honestly been so busy worrying about his own escape, he'd only been able to think briefly about his former best friend. Mycroft, on the other hand, would think of nothing else.

After he left Trevor's little gang, he taken the Eurostar across the channel to Paris and from there he'd flown to Canada. Getting through customs into the US had gone smoothly and within another week, John breathed in his first air as a US citizen.

He'd gone to Portland, Oregon first. He arrived just as the season's hard rains began to beat down on the city's streets. He had enough money to live on for a while so he rented a one-room efficiency apartment by the month, reminiscent of his own bed-sit in London. He'd enjoyed the enthusiastic pitter-patter of precipitation at first. He had no idea rain came is so many varieties. During his first few days it spritzed, then drizzled and finally down poured. The rain didn't let up. He thought he might actually grow webs between his fingers before long so he pulled up stakes and moved to the Southwest. He landed in New Mexico.

He'd been living in Alamogordo, New Mexico now for almost six months. He'd been amused by state's motto: _The Land of Enchantment_ stamped on all the yellow and red license plates, and John had been enchanted by this romantic desert. The small town had two clinics and small hospital. Trevor had been clever enough to include a medical degree from a Canadian University in John's papers so he'd be able to work in the states in his chosen profession. He'd been lucky to get an evening shift at an urgent care facility that needed swing shift doctors. The hours were rotten, but John was grateful for the work.

Even with the terrible hours, the complete lack of experience living in a foreign country, and a severe lack of money, John couldn't have been happier in his new situation. Here, he'd met Tara, a 31 year old English teacher at the Alamogordo Middle School, and he just might be in love. They'd met when she brought her five year old son, Tommy into urgent care for a sore throat. The little boy had taken to John with the fierce tenacity and utter devotion that only small children can bestow on complete strangers they take a shine to. Tommy had asked him question after question as only five-year-olds know how to do and John smiled. One of the questions had been, "Dr. John, are you married?"

"No," he'd responded bemused. He'd gotten the hang of an American accent rather quickly.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" the boy pressed innocently. John wondered where this was going when he saw Tommy's mother, Tara blushing furiously. Tara was a lovely, slim woman in her early thirties. She had ultra-long, straight blonde hair that fell just above her hipbones and a light brown, even tan usually associated with beach combers. John thought her strikingly beautiful.

"Tommy," his mother scolded gently. "Don't ask personal questions like that."

John laughed a little and finished examining the adorable, tow-headed child. He pronounced his diagnosis to his mother. She was actually rather happy to know antibiotics would take care of the infection and her son would soon be well. She'd smiled gratefully at John and shook his hand warmly thanking him for his time. Tommy took the opportunity to announce to room that if Dr. John wanted to come over to dinner, his mom made very good mashed potatoes.

That made John laugh outright. "Is that so?" he ventured.

"Yes," she said blushing even more furiously. "I lost my husband in Afghanistan two years ago," she admitted. "Tommy misses having a guy around."

John started at that. "Well," he said not knowing how to continue the conversation.

"I'd love to go out for coffee sometime. If you get time off from here, that is?" Tara asked hopefully. John made it a point never to date his patients, but in a town this small he wasn't sure what his options might be. And just like that, they were dating. With no Sherlock to interfere, they got along rather well. For John, the two years he'd spent solving crimes with Sherlock were fast fading from his memory.

Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up an hour after John hit him with the butt of his gun. He found himself still handcuffed to his chair in the sitting room of 221B Baker St.

"Wake up, Sherlock," he heard a voice say. It wasn't John and Sherlock did not want to obey.

"Wherez John?" he half moaned, half mumbled "John?"

His vision returned at he saw two large men in street clothes appear in the doorway. "About time you two got here," the voice that woke him up snarled at them.

Sherlock felt rough hands undo the cuffs and lift him up to a standing position. "Time to get up now, Pet," the voice insisted. "We need to leave. Careful, Boys!" said the voice again. "We don't want him damaged. Not when I have such delightful ideas for that myself."

James Moriarty sounded like that, Sherlock thought as tried to clear out the rest of the fuzz from his thoughts. And on the heels of that thought he remembered that John had**_hit_** him, and that shook him back to full awareness. "John!"

"Now, now, darling" Jim said stroking Sherlock's high, strong cheek bone with a soft, well-manicured fingertip. "I've got what I what I came here for. It's a fair deal, Sherlock," Jim drawled sensuously ignoring Sherlock's confused and wounded look.

Jim's men held him suspended between them, gripped by his upper arms, feet nearly dangling as he tried to stand up and keep his balance. When he got his bearings back, he tried struggling against their firm holds, but it did no good. His head hurt and he couldn't see John anywhere. Where had he gone?

Jim hooked a finger into the collar around Sherlock's neck and for the first time, it seemed to register that he might be in a great deal of trouble. "Tut, I've got the remote control, Sherlock."

The collar. Then, the vague memory of John's words floated back into his mind, "I'll never forget you. But, I hope you do forget **_me_**. And, I hope Moriarty teaches you a little humility. Good luck, Sherlock," and he bowed his head in despair from the memory.

"Let's get him back to headquarters," Jim said and left the Baker Street flat dragging Sherlock along with him.

The two men hustled Sherlock into a waiting car. Jim sat in front and now it was Sherlock's turn to be crammed between two sweaty men of rather indiscriminate hygiene. Sherlock didn't know what was happening to his insides as he thought about John's betrayal. Part of him knew that the justice John had taken on him was fair and right. He had, after all, kept him prisoner, taken away his dignity and even coerced him into sex. But the rest of him felt rage. How could John think of giving him over to his worst enemy? Sherlock still loved him fiercely. Even in his rage, he felt the agony of being parted from John and could only close his eyes as the idea of his getting further and further away washed over him. He'd get the man back if it was the last thing he ever did.

Sherlock remembered little of the ride to Moriarty's headquarters. He sat between his captors and refused to open his eyes. He could feel the light weight of the collar around his throat and it galled him. One press of Jim's finger and the collar around his neck would blow, and he'd bleed out unceremoniously. This was never supposed to be his fate. He was far too clever, too important to land in this humiliating position. Yet, here he was. Even remembering that Mycroft could use the tracking chip in the collar to locate him gave him little hope now. Jim had too many resources at his disposal and he would know about the chip.

"Let's make a quick stop," Jim said along the way. "We've got to switch out that collar with one of mine. Oh, and blindfold him."

Sherlock groaned. Of course Moriarty knew about the tracking chip. His fate now rested entirely in his enemy's hands.

When they arrived at Jim's headquarters, Sherlock had the new collar in place. This one had the initials J.M. on it in gold lettering.

"Bring him to my suite," he told the men guiding Sherlock through the back entrance of a nondescript warehouse. Even though he'd been blindfolded, Sherlock knew they were somewhere near the shore the Thames just outside of London. He had unconsciously counted the number of turns in his head and could smell the river nearby. The blindfold had slipped a bit and he could see through a small portion of it. He thought he could pinpoint the exact street if he caught a glimpse of … yes the building to his left had once contained a counterfeiting operation. He'd cracked that case a year ago and now knew exactly where he was. It cheered him slightly that Jim thought he might not be able to figure out his exact location.

The men half-carried, half drug him through hallways until they reached a section of the warehouse that had been richly appointed as a living space. One of them removed the blindfold and Sherlock took in the tastefully decorated rooms that surely belonged to James Moriarty. Jim himself sat behind a large modern desk, hands placed squarely on the surface looking at him.

"Sit down," Jim said leveling his gaze at Sherlock.

Sherlock weighed his options. He could try to run but the two men standing guard at the door and the collar around his neck made that option impossible. So, he sat.

His heart still ached at the thought of John's betrayal. He'd done everything he could to keep his friend safe and he'd thought that John might just have begun to accept his new life as Sherlock's lover. Mycroft had assured him when the collar experiment had begun, that John would come around, grow fond of him and even love him. He'd just have to be patient and gradually allow John more and more freedoms. They would have been back to their customary, crime solving unity soon enough with some added benefits. And, the idea of leaving would have been tempered out of John permanently. It would have worked if it hadn't been for Moriarty's interference. Sherlock found he still couldn't bring himself to hate John. Even now, John still fascinated him, a perfect puzzle whose complexity grew instead of diminished over time.

"He isn't coming back, Sherlock," Jim said softly. "I know you're attached to him…"

"You know nothing about me," Sherlock ground out harshly. "I don't care if you do have this collar on me, don't try to pretend you care about my relationship with …." Sherlock couldn't finish that thought. He no longer had a relationship with John. He'd blown that chance away forever. "Don't pretend you care. And don't try to console me! Just get on with whatever you intend to do." he ended fiercely.

Jim nodded at him evenly. His slightly widened eyes continued their relentless gaze until he broke it suddenly and said to his men, "Take him to the room at the end of the hallway."

Chapter 3

September in New Mexico arrived with the rich smell of roasting green chilies in the air. The intense heat of summer softened into crisp mornings and warm afternoons. What leafy trees dotted the spare streets of Alamogordo turned red and gold just like the trees did in London, only here and there mesquite bushes, cacti and tumbleweeds crowded between them. John woke up one morning to find two dozen, colorful, hot air balloons gliding silently over his apartment. Hot air balloon rallies were a common occurrence in the fall. He could actually hear the voices of the people only a few stories above him in the balloon's baskets as they chatted calmly about the beautiful day. One of them waved to him. He waved back and felt a sense of unreality sweep over him. London had never offered sights, sounds or smells like these and John couldn't seem to get enough. It made him glad to be alive.

One of his favorite places to go now that he lived on the other side of the planet, was the White Sands National park. As it was only a twenty minute drive from town, Tara and Tommy often took him on picnics when John had time off from the clinic. He loved to watch Tommy roll down the shady sides of the dunes and entertain himself digging extensive and elaborate holes, a landlocked beach with no water. They'd always come home with sand in their shoes and sunburns across their noses no matter how much sunscreen they applied. John really couldn't have been happier except for when he wasn't.

The first time John visited the dunes, he'd been astounded by the miles and miles of pure, white sand that stretched as far as the eye could see. Camera crews regularly filmed in the back part of the park. Apparently, Tara told John, it could substitute for deserts all over the world and cost production companies far less. Now that he knew the secret, John had seen at least three movies, two TV shows and a few commercials that had sported scenes from the iconic white dunes in them. Special effect crews usually tinted the sand yellow on film. The last time he'd watched a Transformers movie with Tommy (Tara wasn't entirely sure he'd been old enough) the boy had pointed to the screen and said, "That's White Sands!"

"Good eye," John had said praising him. Sherlock would have been proud at his observational skills, he thought and then froze. Where had that thought come from, John wondered. He thought he'd locked the detective out.

Memories of Sherlock usually stayed far away from his daily thoughts but at the oddest times, he would hear the man's voice in his head. During his first week at the clinic, a mother brought in her surly, teenaged son. Based on his aggressive attitude, urgent care was the last place he wanted to be. At first, John thought the boy might have a virus. He had a runny nose, red eyes, and nausea. His mother said he couldn't sleep. "Look closer, John. Don't be an idiot," he heard a deep voice rumble in his mind. "The boy doesn't have a virus, he's been using….Look at his hands." John had looked closer and spotted the tell-tale twitch the kid had been trying to conceal. He was in the beginnings of withdrawal.

"Mrs. Garza," John began after he'd asked the boy to step outside in order to speak to his mother alone. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you…" He didn't need Sherlock's help anymore but it seemed like he got it whether he wanted it or not.

After he'd been with Tara for almost two months, he had settled into his new life effortlessly. They still lived separately, but John spent a great deal of time at her comfortable, adobe house. She'd received enough money from her husband's insurance policy to buy it, and her job as a teacher allowed her to live there modestly. John admired her independence and self-suffiency very much. He could picture himself spending the rest of his days with a women like Tara.

They had an arrangement where John bought the groceries, and she cooked dinner for him at least three nights a week. Tommy was right, she could make excellent mashed potatoes among other things, John had thought with a wicked smile. They fell into a romance easily and sex with Tara soothed John. The first few times they slept together in her double bed, he simply worked hard to drive all thoughts of sex with Sherlock from his mind. He'd covered her in kisses until she giggled and returned the favor. She knew how to touch him so his brain stopped thinking. She could kiss and soothe all his conflicting thoughts away. When he touched Tara's breasts and thighs, he almost never thought of pale, white skin, a long slender neck or a full, cupid's bow mouth. _Almost_ never.

Soon after, they feel into a rhythm of dinners, and sleepovers. He spent most of his days off with the two of them as well. Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to convince anyone they were just "dating" anymore.

He found he liked spending time with the two of them, but something kept him from moving in and making things permanent. Tara often hinted he might be more comfortable if he had all his things at her place. "It would be nice not to have to go back and forth, wouldn't it?" she'd asked him at four months. But he put her off gently, and she let him.

During his bachelor years he'd imagined having this kind of intimacy with a family of his own. Even though he'd stumbled on this ready-made version, it felt right here. But, he still woke up with nightmares in the middle of the night. When it happened at Tara's house, she cooed him back to sleep. He tried to relax afterward, but usually he found he just wanted his own bed and a little distance. He knew he shouldn't feel that way but he did.

One night after a particularly bad dream, he'd shouted, "Sherlock!" and she'd asked him what that meant. He shook his head and said, "No, I don't think I can tell you just yet," and stroked her lovely, long hair. "Sorry I woke you, go back to sleep."

But that night, John didn't return to sleep. He stayed awake and worried. Did he have the right to drag them into his mess? Tara knew him as John Tennant a mild-mannered but slightly cheeky doctor who'd recently emigrated from Canada. Sure, it had been self-preservation, but now John could picture any number of ways Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes could screw up Tara's life. Did Moriarty give more than a passing fuck about him now that he'd fled? It hit him just how dangerous it might be for them now that he'd made himself a part of their life. He worried that his involvement in the lives of these two wonderful people might just get them hurt or worse. Perhaps Mycroft would simply buy Tara off if he found out. But, he deserved this happiness, didn't he? Didn't he? He really didn't know if he could ever let his guard down and stop looking over his shoulder for the Holmes brothers.

He'd finally got back to sleep and then let himself be lulled into complacency over the next few months. It wouldn't do to give up one of the best things that had happened to him simply because he didn't have the ability to stay. His cover was full proof. No one knew his whereabouts. It would take _Sherlock Holmes_ to find him…. He decided not to finish that thought. He'd just stay and give himself this life.

Once a month, he'd head over to White Sands, to walk under the full moon and just wander along the backs of the dunes until he couldn't see the car park anymore. If he let his mind wander a bit, he might be back in the Army on desert patrol. Sometimes, during these walks, he thought of Sherlock. For some reason, out in the haunting desolation of the night soaked dunes, thoughts of his former life could take shape. He'd let them run free out here.

Tonight, after six months of living softly in New Mexico, he driven out here to walk alone and reflect. He'd taken his car, a used Subaru, and still had to remind himself to drive on the wrong/right side of the road. Thankfully, he'd learned how to drive as a teenager and just had to freshen up his skills a bit.

He got there, parked next to one of the funny covered tables, and started walking and thinking. If he let himself get closer to Tara and Tommy, he'd have to erase John Watson from his memory and become Dr. Jonathan Tennant. If he tried hard enough, he could shove Sherlock deep into his memory. He could convince himself his best friend had died. He could pretend his amazing, genius partner had been shot down chasing a bad guy and left the world too soon. He'd just have to let the man go, forget his angular face, his quicksilver eyes, his baritone voice and his shimmering intellect. He'd just have to forget 221b Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and… John sank to his knees and began to cry. He'd just have to forget the feeling of flying as he chased a flaring, Belstaff coat through the streets of London. He'd just have to forget the charge he'd felt when Sherlock would look at him in wide-eyed amazement and say, "Oh!" when he solved a puzzle that no one else could solve. And, he'd have to forget the pulse of lust in Sherlock's eyes when John had finally begged him for release the night he'd tied him to his bed. Just that.

He lay on his back staring up at the moon. The sand prickled his back where his t-shirt had ridden up. Sand had somehow trickled into his pants under his jeans. He let it. He felt himself finally mourn for the loss of Sherlock, his friend. He didn't know if he could spend his life with Tara. Six months, he thought. He'd been granted six lovely months of domestic bliss and that might just have to serve him for a lifetime. He sighed, sat up and shook off the sand. Time to go back. He noticed he hadn't thought the word home. Even in his thoughts, it still felt like Tara's house not their home. Maybe he just needed to give it time.

He stood up and looked for his own footprints in the sand. He found his trail and followed it back. A warm breeze blew across the dune in front of him and he got a bit of stinging sand in his eyes. Normally, this time of year didn't have much wind but tonight the devil decided to give John a little whirl to accompany his troubling thoughts home. He put an arm over his face and tried squint past it to find his tracks. He thought he'd come up the dune to his right but in the moonlight, they all looked the same.

As swiftly as it picked up, the wind stilled and John sighed in relief when he saw most of his footprints had survived the sudden gust. He shouldn't have gone so far out in the dark. He walked back toward his car still thinking dark thoughts. He trudged along the valley of the final dune and looked up. A lone figure stood at the top. The strong moon illuminated a male outline and John's imagination filled it in with a billowing Belstaff coat, upturned collar and curly hair. It couldn't be, John's mind thundered. How could he be here? He stopped, heart beating fast and thought about what to do next. Was it Sherlock? Other people walked the dunes on the night of the full moon. The park stayed open until midnight to allow people to do just that. It could just be a passing stranger. John had run into the occasional person who also liked to walk the slivery sand on the night of the full moon. Usually they just nodded to each other and kept walking. However, the figure on top of the hill stood still, not moving and John knew that whoever it was wanted him. Tara knew about his moonlight walks, but this wasn't Tara.

There was nowhere to run. Endless sand stretched out for miles and whoever stood at the top of the dune probably already knew which vehicle he drove and had it guarded. If it were Mycroft or Sherlock, he was now well and truly caught. He swallowed his fear and finished climbing to the figure. There was nothing for it now, he'd just have to face his fate.

Chapter 4

**Warning: Some forced imprisonment in this chapter. Some fleeting thoughts of suicide.**

Sherlock waited in the room at the end of the hall for the next three days. It was a plain room, with white walls, a small pallet bed, a sink and a toilet. No one hit him; they just left him alone. Twice a day, his door opened and a man appeared. He brought Sherlock a tray with very bland food and commanded him to, "Eat." Later he came back and took the barely touched tray away.

Sherlock might actually go mad from boredom if things didn't change soon. He'd tried to escape but the door to his room had no lock to pick. Jim's lackey controlled it with a key card. They kept him on a chain attached from an ankle cuff to the wall that allowed him to use the sink, the bed, and toilet but not reach the door. The room offered no distractions, no TV, no books, not even a window.

He spent a great deal of time lying on his bunk in his mind palace. On the first interminable day, after he realized he'd been abandoned, he reorganized his mental collection of poisonous plants that could kill humans by color, then by size, then by potency. He'd eaten very little of the food left to him and his captors commands to, "Eat!" began to be punctuated with a forceful fist pump in his direction. He didn't know if that meant the meaty man would punch him if he didn't eat more, but he ignored the warnings and continued to pick half-heartedly at his meals. He missed John's goading attempts to get him to consume nourishment. He'd eat for John. He missed John.

He missed John so much he replayed the one morning they'd spent together over and over in his memory. John had kissed him willingly by licking his lips open with his soft, urgent tongue.

Sherlock remembered his surprise at John's sudden ardor. He didn't want to believe that John had just been leading him on by giving him exactly what he wanted. John had kissed him in the kitchen pressing his trim torso into Sherlock's chest. The move had quickly disarmed him and he felt John's arms come up in a tender embrace. His own hands moved to cup the back of John's head and ass.

As the kiss deepened, John ran his hands run along the length of Sherlock's back. Sherlock thought he tasted deliciously like tea and raspberry biscuits. Kissing John like this satisfied something deep inside him. He couldn't seem to breathe enough of John's air. He wanted so much more of John so he sucked on his bottom lip and John had moaned just a bit and kissed him harder.

Sherlock replayed this over and over in his head. Their first real kiss. Had John been plotting his escape even as he pressed his lips onto Sherlock's? The thought maddened him.

He hadn't showered or even bothered to "freshen up" in the sink. He began to smell ripe after the third day and his hair fell in limp, greasy clumps. There was no mirror, but he could run his hand across the growing stubble on his neck and face. He hated facial hair, but now it didn't matter. No one could see him and no one seemed to care whether he lived or died. During the three days he'd been locked in his horrible room, he often wondered what John would think of his current predicament. Would he laugh at him? Would he say, "Now you know what it feels like to be caged up like a dog? Now, you know what _I_ felt like."

But Sherlock still couldn't regret the methods he used to keep John safe. He hadn't kept him locked in a room like this. John had been able to freely roam Baker Street, type on his laptop, watch TV and do everything he normally did anyway. It wasn't the same thing at all, he petulantly thought to himself. But, a smaller voice said, "Perhaps it was."

On the evening of the third day in the room, Jim paid Sherlock a visit.

"I see you're adjusting," Jim said standing just out of Sherlock's reach by the door. He'd left his gorilla outside and stood quietly watching the detective as he lie on the bed with his eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin, his thinking pose.

"I thought you were going to _damage_ me?" Sherlock responded not opening his eyes. He'd come to the conclusion that if Jim wanted to beat him, injure him or even rape him, it would be preferable to spending another tiresome day in this room doing nothing.

"Oh, I believe my plans for that have already begun, Sherlock. The only reason I'm here tonight is because my men say you're not eating. I can't have you dying of malnutrition or illness. No, that wouldn't do at all. I'm going to have a tray brought in and you're going to eat all of it."

"And if I don't?" Sherlock countered, finally opening his eyes.

"Then, I'll restrain and force feed you with a tube down your throat," Jim said tilting his head to one side. "Your choice."

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. "Might be more interesting to do it that way…"

"Then, I'll hook you up to an IV and feed you intravenously. I can keep you strapped to a bed indefinitely, force feed you, and stick a bedpan under your ass. I'll keep you in this tiresome kennel and you'll be my pet for as long as I want you to be, Sherlock. So eat or it will be _worse_ than this."

Jim turned to leave the room. "This is your last warning. Then, we do it my way."

"All right, I'll eat. Then what? What are you going to do?" he asked hating the pleading note that had crept into his voice.

"Sherlock, I'm already doing the worst thing I can think of. I'm ignoring you," Jim said and then left.

He hadn't expected that. What was the endgame? He couldn't see how ignoring him would give the criminal mastermind any advantage. James Moriarty never did anything that didn't give him a distinct advantage. Sherlock heard the door open again and the lackey brought in the tray. It contained the usual bland fare and he merely glanced at it. He hadn't really eaten much during the three days beyond an occasional nibble on some bread. His stomach roiled at the smell of the food. He wanted to eat it, but he also wanted to throw it at the wall. The man put the tray on the floor and scooted it towards Sherlock's bed. "Eat," he commanded. "I'm supposed to watch you."

This was new, Sherlock thought. He got off the bed and picked up the tray. He sat back down, used the little plastic spoon and began scooping up noodles covered in some sort of white sauce. There were small pieces of chicken mixed in. The whole mess had been overcooked and tasted like an uninterested, school cafeteria worker had prepared it. He began shoveling the mess into his mouth and chewed meditatively. Without consciously deciding, Sherlock began deducing his hapless guard. During the brief glimpses he'd managed to get of the man previously, he noticed several things. Now he could see more detail. He'd recently been divorced, he had a minor drinking problem, he suffered from several allergies and he hated his current job as Sherlock's jailer.

"You know," Sherlock began after chewing through another enormous bite of the slop. "You might catch the boss's attention and get a promotion if you asserted yourself a bit more."

"Shuddup," the man barked. "Boss told me not to let you talk. Just eat."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shoveled another bite into his mouth. The sooner he got this drivel down, the sooner he could be left in peace apparently. He'd been wrong about something being better than the nothing. This man might actually be worse than boring.

He took another bite of the chicken noodle surprise and decided that was all he could stomach. He tried placing the tray on the floor when his captor said, "All of it." And pointed to the small amount left on the tray. A portion of sliced apple also rested near the noodles in an attempt to balance out this atrocity of a meal. "That too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked the tray back up. His stomach already rebelled at the idea of eating more, but he picked up the spoon and shoved the last of it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed and almost gagged on the stuff. But, he had no idea what would happen if he vomited it up and didn't want to find out. So, he calmed himself and let the food settle. He picked up the apple slices, green his least favorite kind, and stuffed all them into his mouth next. The man just stared at him and Sherlock wondered fleetingly if he looked like an overgrown chipmunk with a mouth full of nuts. He pushed the now empty tray back across the floor in a "so there" manner. He chewed the fruit and apple juice ran down his chin. He let it congeal on his shirt. It really no longer mattered at all.

The man opened the door and left the room a moment later. The mastermind bastard knew the worst torture imaginable for a man like him. Boredom.

Jim let him rot in his prison/room for another week. He reeked. His days ran together punctuated by the daily forced feedings. He began switching his lights off and sitting for hours in the dark. He lost all sense of himself after the seventh day. Jim's plan to break him, hurt him and destroy him couldn't have gone any better. And, he'd done it all as simply and elegantly as keeping him locked in a room. Genius.

On the eighth day Jim sent his jailer, Sherlock had silently named him Geoff, in to take him to the showers. Geoff placed a choke chain around his neck and prodded him forward out the door. Remarkably, the small change of scenery did much to perk Sherlock out of his daze. He found himself trying to observe the hallways but things kept getting jumbled up. Perhaps his synapses had atrophied so much in the dark, he'd lost his keen powers of observation. That sent a thin chill down his spine. Without his ability to see, what good was he? John would have nothing to praise him for now. Sherlock hung his head and marched forward.

They stripped him, and placed him under warm water. Hands massaged his hair with shampoo and someone dispassionately scrubbed down his body. Dripping, he stepped out and Geoff handed him a scratchy towel. "Dry," his captor said. "Boss wants to see you and he don't want to smell, you. So dry off and get dressed."

Sherlock dried off and put on a t-shirt and sweat pants. He was also given a pair of slippers for his feet. Thoughtful, he managed to think before he brushed the thought aside in anger. He seemed to be having trouble keeping any emotion in his mind at all. Dull.

Instead of taking him back to the room, he found himself in Moriarty's living quarters sitting in front of the modern desk.

"How'd you like my hospitality, Sherlock?" Jim asked politely.

Sherlock looked up then. "What do you want me to say?" He discovered he half wanted the man to just dispatch him and get it over with. He couldn't spend more time in the room. He knew it as truth. "I can't go back."

"I've got a little puzzle you can solve for me, if you'd rather have something to do?"

Sherlock schooled his face into the stoic mask he'd perfected over the years. It clicked into place. Jim had hinted at his ambitions at the swimming pool "Together we could rule the world." It made sense now.

"What puzzle?" Sherlock asked.

"Just a little problem I've been hired to solve. You know, that's what I do. I solve people's, well, in this case a country's, problems. They pay me an obscene amount of money, and I provide a necessary service. Only, most of the services I provide aren't quite," and here he paused and bit his lip, "legal."

"I won't help you commit crimes. I've make it my life's work to stop you," Sherlock said but he already wanted to know more about the puzzle. He wondered if he'd beg the man not to put him back.

"Well, that's too bad. The reward for being a good pet and helping Daddy is to get out of the room. The punishment is well….. more time in the room. I'm all about choice, Sherlock. That great big brain of yours is turning to mush, I can tell. You're starting to get that "stupid" look forming in your eyes. What a waste."

Sherlock felt the moment turn. After being out of the room for just an hour, he knew he couldn't go back. He'd die, or he'd find a way to kill himself if that happened. But, he'd never been one to give up so easily. The thought of Moriarty being able to control him like this made him despair. Mycroft had hinted that Jim's influence had crept into the highest levels of government. If he went down this dark path, he might never find his way back to the light. How could he look his insufferable brother or Lestrade in the eye ever again if he helped Moriarty carry out one of his evil schemes? How could he confess his crimes to John? It would break John if he knew he'd helped the worst villain in Brittan do atrocious things. But, what choice did he have? Perhaps he could work a flaw into the tapestry of Jim's plans so they could be unraveled later. He clung to that hope and said, "What puzzle?"

Jim smiled and said, "Let me show you, Sherlock."

Chapter 5

John walked steadily up the dune toward the dark figure silhouetted in the moonlight.

"Oi, John? Is that you?" a man's voice floated down and instant relief flooded through him.

"Trevor, you fucker!" John said a smile spreading over his face. He ran the rest of the way up the hill until he stood even with the man who had very likely saved his life by getting him out of England. Trevor gave him a bear hug and clapped him on the back.

"How did you find me?" John asked. Even though he counted the man as one of his allies, he wasn't too happy he'd been tracked down.

"All too easy, mate. I was given directions to your whereabouts by a man named Mycroft Holmes."

"What?" John asked feeling his guts turn to water.

Trevor laughed good naturedly and then suddenly sobered. "I can see I'm handling this the wrong way. I've been hired by one Mycroft Holmes to retrieve one John Watson from the USA and bring him back to England, forcefully if necessary but relatively unharmed."

John glared at him, "And you took the job? You sold me out?"

"John, I took the job," and here he paused and looked warmly at him. "Because, I knew if I didn't take it, someone else would. They'd be far less gentle. Mycroft Holmes has known where you've been for the past month. He's been watching you covertly for a while trying to determine the best way to retrieve you."

"He's been watching me, here?" John knew Mycroft had reach, but New Mexico? He'd probably been naive to think just moving away to a different country would be enough.

"Oh, he's got facial recognition software of the like you could only imagine. And, every city in a civilized country has traffic cameras. Unless you lived in a cave on an island, he would have found you. Your habit of coming out to the dunes during a full moon was noted and we've been sent to pick you up out here, quietly."

"Tara?" John asked but he knew the moment Trevor shook his head.

"We didn't hurt her or the little fella. She's a looker, that one," he said and gave him a wink. "I'm supposed to take you to the White Sands military base and put you on a small government plane from here. I can't let you speak to her or the boy, I'm sorry, John."

"What will you tell her? I can't just disappear. She'll freak out, Tommy will be devastated."

"We've got that covered, John lad," Trevor said. He pulled out a mobile phone and entered a text. "We've got some very official looking military men who are going to come to her house, collect your things and tell her you've been drafted back into.." here he chuckled. "Canada's secret service."

"But, I haven't told her anything about my military involvement. She only knows me as a doctor not a solider. She's never going to believe..."

"We're going to tell her you're needed on a special mission and won't be back for a while. Then, we'll send her a few official updates and then well…. She might get a letter saying you've gone MIA. Mr. Holmes doesn't want you to have any more contact with them. I'm truly sorry, John. It's a bitch, I know. But, you're coming back to England with me. We've got orders."

John sank into the sand for the second time that evening. Tara would be so confused. She'd feel so abandoned and then eventually just think he'd been captured by some nameless enemy or died? Tommy would…..It was unthinkable. He'd become so attached to them both and now they would just miss him endlessly never knowing what really happened to him?

"How could you do this?" John snarled at Trevor. "What about a life debt and owing me for saving your fucking life?"

"Hey Doc, I paid that back. Never let it be said I don't square my debts. What you did or did not do with your opportunity was not on me. You should have laid a bit lower, if you know what I mean. Now, if you don't mind, I got a timetable to keep," he said actually glancing at his watch. "I need you to get up and walk."

Trevor pulled out a military pistol not unlike John's trusty Sig and pointed it at him. "I'm supposed to give you a choice to go back easy or hard. I'd rather do it easy, myself. I like you, Doc. I still appreciate your savin' my life and all. But, he's paying me a ridiculous amount of money to bring you back, and me and the boys have been havin' a rough go of it lately, so up you get."

John closed his eyes and pictured Tara's face as it might look when some man in fatigues told her their bullshit story and felt fury rise in him. "You bastard, I should have let you die that day!" he shouted and rushed Trevor. While John still had some genuine military moves from his days as a solider, Trevor outweighed him by 40 pounds and all of it was muscle. Trevor had John down on his face in the sand with his arm pulled up painfully behind his back seconds later. "I'm not going to hurt you, Doc. Get up and let's do this easy."

He let John climb to his feet. Tears fell down his face and he wiped them away angrily. "Mycroft sent you because he knew I'd trust you. He knew you'd be able to capture me without a fight. So much for the brotherhood of men," John gritted out as he passed in front of his former comrade-in-arms.

"Let's go, Doc. I'm doing this for your own good. Even though you don't see it that way, I'm still lookin' out for you. You wouldn't want any of my competitors escorting you back. Trust me on that one. They would have just shot out one of your knees and brought you back broken."

John vowed he would never trust Trevor again and started walking. "What about my car?"

"Give me the keys and we'll drive it back to your girlfriend's house. Do you want her to have it?"

John felt a surrealistic wave wash over him at the thought of all the flotsam and jetsam of his life with Tara. What would she do with his stuff, his clothes, or even his bank account? "Yes, the title's in the glove box. Here's the key." He'd never removed it when he bought it from the used car dealer in Alamogordo. "Give her my wallet too. Tell her to clean out my bank account and take whatever's in there. She deserves it all." John felt it all wash away, all the tension and terror and worry. He was back in the Holmes' grip. Whatever they had in store for him, he'd get through it. He always did.

He wrote his pin number on a slip of paper in his wallet and handed it all over to Trevor. Even though he'd been down this road before, he found that suddenly giving up on one life and moving on to another didn't get easier. He sighed and started walking back to the car park. He cast one longing look back over the New Mexico landscape, dunes in the dark. He would remember this place for the rest of his life. Perhaps he'd leave a permanent piece of himself here forever under the stars. No matter what happened to him next, he'd been able to fight off captivity for a while and carve out this freedom and happiness for a short time. It had been worth the effort.

A hour later, much quicker than he imagined, John sat in the belly of a small military plane heading back to England. It had been granted clearance to takeoff from the White Sands missile base with John, Trevor and a few of his hand-picked men escorting them back to England. He had only the clothes on his back and duffle bag full of some personal effects and a spare change of clothes they'd collected from Tara's house. As expected, she hadn't taken any of it well. Trevor had handcuffed him to his seat but he left him a good deal of room to move. John felt miserable as he laid his head against the glass of the window pane and tried not to think about his future.

Chapter 6

**Warning: Non-Consensual situations in this chapter.**

Sherlock's routine never varied. One of Jim's men woke him up early, forced him to eat breakfast, then took him into a small room with a bank of computers and gave him a "task." Then, after hours of solving puzzle after puzzle, they fed him again and put him back into his room. Repeat. Day after day, he lived in monotonous cycle of exhilaration, shame and despair. He wanted out. He needed to be free of this miserable imprisonment. Jim forced him to solve case after case, and Sherlock hated all of them. But, without the puzzles, he knew he'd wither and die.

Sometimes he had to unravel the mystery of how or why a person disappeared. Other times, he had to find something stolen. Once, he even got to find a serial killer for Jim, and it wasn't boring. For this particular puzzle, it seemed someone kept stealing the young male and female sex "slaves" of influential billionaires. Then, they mutilated said billionaires. The killer usually slipped in, drugged them, chopped off prominent sexual organs and left them barely alive. He then absconded with their prized possessions and spirited the young slaves away to safety. Of course this couldn't be endured so Sherlock had to track down this vigilante and bring him to "justice."

It turned out the killer, a very young man named Albert Price, had been inspired to go on his vendetta after rescuing his own little sister, all of sixteen years old, who'd been forcibly captured and sold to a man who believed he could buy anything with enough money, including her virginity. After getting her away from the monsters who bought her like a piece of livestock, he'd gotten a taste of being a hero. He'd managed to free several other young slaves before Sherlock could stall Moriarty no longer. He'd been hiding himself as a riding instructor in the stables of the fabulously rich. He had a perfect cover and managed to get inside information about the poor young girls and boys being held in the mansions of the ultra-rich. He had been very clever, and no one could figure it out. Sherlock could.

Sherlock regretted having to help Moriarty bring down Albert Price, and stalled as long as he could. He'd ascertained who the man was on the first day of being presented with the challenge, but he tried to drag his feet for a full week. During that time, the young vigilante had managed to free over a dozen slaves. But, Sherlock found he couldn't stall any further and regretfully had to give up his name. It shamed him to do it, but Jim suspected his hesitation and the alternative was to go back to his prison room and rot in the dark. He chose daylight and Albert's death.

But, when Sherlock performed his tasks admirably, Moriarty rewarded him. "You are a perfect pet, Sherlock," he told him the night after he'd given up Albert's identity. "I want to show you how I reward my faithful servants." He'd slipped his hand under Sherlock's chin and caressed his jaw. The movement surprised Sherlock so much, he didn't react when Jim threaded his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and drew him down for a kiss.

Two large men stood guard on either side of the door of the room they were in when Jim made his move, and Sherlock knew they'd come to their boss's aid if he did anything threatening while Jim kissed him. Sherlock was well aware of his situation and understood if Jim wanted to be physical with him, he'd have to allow it. He'd been expecting it long before now. He assumed withholding sexual interaction was part of Jim's plan to keep his life as uninteresting as possible. So, in Jim's brain, the opposite must be true. In Jim's mind, a reward for doing the detestable deeds would be more stimulation.

Jim flicked his tongue into Sherlock's mouth greedily while his hands wrapped around his back and pressed him into his chest so that Sherlock let out a soft, "Whump," of breath in surprise. Sherlock tried to kiss the man back. He knew Jim's fury might well be the death of him if he didn't at least try to reciprocate. Jim's desire grew more fervent and Sherlock felt a hardness pressing into his leg. His own length stayed soft however and nothing he imagined could get it to budge. Soon, Jim's hand moved around his front to run along Sherlock's slender torso and down over the soft bulge in his trousers.

"What's wrong with you?" Jim demanded, pulling away angrily.

"I don't know," Sherlock stammered. "I've been overstressed," he tried lying. The truth was, Jim's kisses and touches stimulated nothing in Sherlock. He felt only revulsion for the man. His tormenter wanted intimacy from him and there was nothing in Sherlock that could muster up anything like passion. Each touch and kiss reminded him of how it was supposed to feel, with John. He bowed his head hoping Jim's frustration would get the better of him and he'd stop. Let it go.

"Take him to my bedroom," Jim said to his men leveling a piercing look at Sherlock. He put one finger under his chin and raised Sherlock's face up. "I'll take you anyway," he sneered at him and nodded to the men. It sent a shock of fear into his stomach, and he wondered what Jim would do to him. The men grabbed Sherlock's arms and marched him through a hallway he'd never been down before.

Moriarty's room lie in the opposite direction of Sherlock's horrible prison and held a grand, four poster bed complete with fine linens. One of the men rummaged around in a bureau and pulled out four restraints with leather cuffs. Sherlock shuddered and remembered the day when he arrogantly thought being raped by Jim would be better than boredom, well he'd find out now. The men pulled off his clothes and roughly pushed him face down on the bed. They tied one wrist to each post at the head of the bed, and did the same to his ankles at the foot.

His face landed in a pillow and he ground his teeth together in fury to wait for the inevitable pain and humiliation this would bring. An overwhelming sense of grief descended as the helplessness of his situation finally sunk in. John, I'm so sorry he thought. I've brought this on myself and on you as well. You never deserved any of it. "I'm sorry," he groaned aloud to the room. He knew he'd never be able to tell him now. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispered hoping somehow the apology might reach across an ocean to his John, the only person who'd ever cared for him and the only person he'd ever loved. John.

"Oh I know you're sorry, Pet. But it won't help you now," Jim said behind him and laid a fever warm hand on the back of Sherlock's naked thigh. With the other hand, he caressed Sherlock's collar and gave it a tug. Jim often liked to remind Sherlock of his ownership. He heard the slither of Jim's belt as he pulled it from the loops of his trousers. Then, he felt the sharp sting as the thin leather strap laid the first of many stripes across his supple ass, legs and back.

Sherlock performed many regrettable services for James Moriarty over the next few months and felt himself sink further and further into damnation with every act. And occasionally, Jim forced himself on him sexually. But for each job he performed for Moriarty, he lost part of his will to continue carrying on. Soon, chasing the answers to the puzzles wouldn't provide enough of a narcotic effect to numb the awareness of his own culpability, and he'd finally have to face what he was really doing, helping a criminal mastermind do evil things. He'd have to face the fact that his fear of boredom, his selfishness, his own maddening ego had led him to this place. If he could stop, let it all go, he might save some good part of himself yet. He didn't know how to do it and it frightened him to his core to think about how to sacrifice what he needed to sacrifice in order to pull himself back from his own personal hell.

No matter how hard he tried to do the right thing, Jim always had the upper hand and forced him to give up more and more of himself to do the devil's bidding. Until one day, he caught a break.

"I've got a surprise," Jim crooned as he came into the computer room where Sherlock sat hunched over his workstations. "You've been such a good boy these past few months that I've decided to give you something special."

Sherlock looked up wearily. Jim's surprises were never good. In fact he might not be able to survive another one of Jim's special jobs. Sherlock found his ability to continue treading water until he could swim away from this quagmire of evil rapidly fading away. He was getting tired of fighting and didn't know how much longer he could do it. He simply didn't have John's strength and felt such a renewal of respect for his friend that it almost overwhelmed him. John would know how to get out of this mess. He'd suggest the perfect thing and Sherlock would act on that suggestion leading to an epiphany. Puzzle solved. Since John's absence from his life, Sherlock hadn't had a perfect "Oh" moment since. Sure he'd solved a lot of puzzles, but solving problems with John far surpassed doing it alone.

"What?" he asked Jim keeping his tone as even as possible. "Would you like me to discontinue trying to find out who killed the owner of strip club, because I don't believe I've ever had such a stimulating case."

Sherlock had solved it in the first five minutes but the owner of the club had regularly beaten and raped his workers. Sherlock thought the ape had it coming so he stalled as usual. Although he knew the woman responsible for the murder, a worker in the club, would be brought out and publically punished, he wanted to put it off for her as long as possible.

"You can put that one on hold for now. I've got a special project for us today," Jim said glowing with excitement. "It seems your brother has found a certain someone you've been wondering about, Sherlock."

"John," Sherlock said before he could censor himself. "Show me!" he demanded.

"Tut, Darling," he said smirking infuriatingly. "I'd have thought you'd have cooled off on Johnny Boy since he left you so abruptly. But, I can see it's still a sore point for you. So, here." He pushed a button on one of the keyboards and a grainy video stream appeared in front of Sherlock. It showed a figure, a very John shaped figure, getting money out of an ATM machine. John, very much alive and looking quite fit, punched in some buttons and retrieved some cash. Sherlock's relief nearly overwhelmed him. John seemed to be okay.

"Keep watching," Jim said casually. "It gets better."

"Where is he? When was this taken?" Sherlock asked. He hoped Jim was in a giving mood and would tell him the truth.

"We picked this up from your brother. He's been busy trying to find both you and John. He's managed to find John, but," here he laughed at his own cleverness. "Not you. He'll never find you, Sherlock. You have proved to be very useful to me and I believe, now that we've found John, you'll be even more useful."

"What do you mean? Useful?" Sherlock began to feel a ribbon of fear lace through him.

"Keep watching."

The grainy video played on and John casually stood in front of the ATM's camera. Most people had no idea how often cameras recorded their daily lives. Now, he appeared to be talking to a young, fair-haired, boy about five years old. He placed his hand on the boy's head in a familiar, friendly manner and Sherlock hitched in a breath. He's touching that boy like a father would, Sherlock thought. The boy held something up for John to look and John took it from his hand, examined it and gave it back. The boy laughed and looked up at John with adoring eyes.

If that image hadn't been enough to confuse and wound him, the next one certainly did. A lovely blonde woman came into view next. Reflexively, John reached out an arm and hooked it around her waist to pull her close. He gave her a kiss hello and the boy crooked himself between the pair is if he belonged there. The three couldn't have made a happier looking family except for the fact that John was in the picture as the happy dad. John had no business belonging to these people! How could he have forged new bonds with that woman and her ill-begotten spawn so soon?

Jealously raged in his heart. He'd cut that hateful woman out of his John's life so fast…but, then he looked, really looked at John's face. John loved these two. His face showed clear devotion and a rare attachment Sherlock had only ever seen him show for one other person, him. John had healed his broken, furious heart and the piercing pain Sherlock now felt was different from his first jealous burst. He felt empathy for John. There was joy in his eyes when he touched the boy's head and when he wrapped his arm around the woman's waist. He had found his home. Sherlock felt something tight inside his own chest let go and he felt another emotion take its place. Protectiveness. He wanted to protect John's happy little family. This could be Sherlock's redemption. He could give John this.

The date stamp on the footage showed it to have occurred over a month ago. "Where is he?" Sherlock demanded trying to school his features into looking as he were merely inquisitive.

"This is from an ATM in a town in New Mexico. As far as your brother's files show, files we've stolen by the way, John has been living in this town for about five months now. Mycroft's got him under surveillance and now, so do we. I must remember to thank him next time we meet. Then again, maybe not…" Jim said laughing at his own joke.

"Why do you care? What does he have to do with anything?" Sherlock asked feeling worry for John creep into his heart.

"Now Sherlock, don't give up so soon. I don't think Johnny will get to keep his little toys much longer."

"What do mean?" he asked sharply.

"Your brother has finally done some legwork for a change and followed John's back trail. It seems Mycroft enlisted the help of some old friends of mine to retrieve John from America. But, I've offered much more money for them to double cross the British Government and bring him back to me. I've got a feeling you'll be needing some extra incentive soon. Don't think I've been unaware of your lackluster work lately. "

Sherlock glared at him. Moriarty placed a hand on Sherlock's chin and squeezed hard. You've been keeping things from me, haven't you?"

"No," Sherlock stated narrowing his eyes.

Jim's fingers moved slightly caressing now. His other hand came up and traced across Sherlock's cheekbone tenderly. "Yes, you have and I intend to make you more compliant. I'm going to guarantee that you won't betray me. John's coming back."

Chapter 7

John woke up a few hours later when he felt the wheels of the plane touch down on the runway. He'd been dreaming about his life with Sherlock before the vest made of explosives, before Moriarty's showdown at the swimming pool, and before Sherlock turned into a possessive maniac. He dreamt of sitting in front of the fireplace at 221b on Baker Street. He had his feet up on the coffee table, a comforting cup of tea in hand and his computer in his lap typing up the latest blog. As in dreams, he couldn't make out the words on the page and kept trying to focus his thoughts on typing up their latest case.

The title formed in his mind, "The Case of the Abducted Doctor." John wanted to write a satisfying conclusion to this story because it was distressingly important that it turn out all right. Sherlock had solved the case; he always solved the case, and John didn't know why he couldn't remember the ending. Sherlock, his best friend, stood over his shoulder and pointed to the screen helpfully.

"John," he said amused. "You've forgotten something important."

"Oh, what have I forgotten, Sherlock," John asked feeling irritation rise in him at the detective's superior tone. Sherlock moved toward him and placed his long-fingered hand on top of John's head in a possessive fashion. It felt familiar and reassuring. Then, he moved both hands to rest on John's shoulders and massaged them. The intimate pressure touched all the right spots and John felt himself relaxing, and letting all the tension leave his body. It felt incredible.

"I'm still in the game, and I haven't forgotten you, John," Sherlock answered him.

The dream faded slowly and John tried calling back the warm, familiar feeling of living at Baker Street and the good times. He'd loved the flat and his routine with Sherlock. Each case drew out the desire to do more, risk more to solve the crime. He felt invincible and strong each time they brought another criminal to justice. Sherlock could do no wrong even when he broke the law. John had admired him so much, he'd shot a man for him after knowing him only one day. During those mad chases through the London streets, he'd followed along never questioning his directions, commands or methods. He basked in the glow of Sherlock's genius and thought he'd still be doing exactly the same thing today if Mycroft hadn't introduced the collar.

Perhaps, if Mycroft could see reason. Perhaps, if Sherlock weren't a selfish dick. Perhaps if pigs flew… John finished waking up and stretched as best he could in handcuffs. If he'd never met Sherlock, he could be safely living a boring life as a clinic doctor somewhere in South Croydon right now instead of wondering if Mycroft Holmes were going to deliver him back into the hands of the devil.

"We've landed, Doc," Trevor said moving past his seat on his way to the front of the plane. Trevor leaned over to look out the window. "Canada," he said cryptically.

"Why are we in Canada?" John asked. He thought they'd just fly straight to the UK.

Trevor continued looking out the window a frown line creasing his brow. "I've got new orders," he said. "I'm supposed to hand you off to an old friend before Mr. Holmes gets you. It appears," he said and paused to text someone. "That you've caught the attention of one of my old acquaintances and he's offered a better deal for you."

John looked out the window and saw a long, black car waiting on the tarmac. "Who, Trevor? You owe me at least that, you bastard," John said fiercely. He didn't like the uneasy look on Trevor's face or the jumpy way he looked over his men as they collected their light gear from the plane.

"In my line of work, you learn to pay attention to who's got the power at the top of the food chain. Mycroft Holmes is a big dog, but Jim Moriarty is a wild winter wolf and he wants you, Doc. He wants you so bad, he offered three times my going rate, and my going rate would make your eyes pop out of your head."

"No," John said managing only a hoarse croak. He felt his world drop out from under him again. "You can't hand me over to him, Trevor. He'll kill me or worse, keep me locked up forever."

"Nothing much I can do, Doc. His men are taking over from here. My boys and I are jumping ship and heading to South America for a while to enjoy our ill-gotten gains. I'm afraid I got in over my head on this job, Doc. I had no idea what a hot bucket of piss you'd turn out to be when I helped you back in London. If I knew then what I know now," he shook his head and let out a low chuckle. "But, I guess it worked out, eh?"

"Yeah, it worked out for you, you backstabbing arsehole!" John shouted at him. But, it suddenly became too much. He felt the weight of everything that had happened to him in the last twelve hours. Hell, he felt the suffocating weight of everything that had happened to him in the past six months. He laid his head back on his seat and closed his eyes heavily. "Get out of my sight," he said tiredly. He hoped the whole lot of them suffered some venomous bite and died horrible, painful deaths.

"One more thing before I go," Trevor said and John heard a sound he thought he'd never have to endure again, the sound of a small box opening and... His eyelids flew apart and he saw Trevor standing in front of him holding a thin, leather collar in his hands. This one had the initials JM stamped on one side.

John's mind went white with fear and he moaned, "Please no!" Trevor surged forward and secured the hateful band of black with a click. He'd been trapped again, like an errant dog.

Trevor arched back out of John's reach quickly. "They're gonna be here in a minute. I have to leave. But, Doc. I'm going out on a limb here and doing you one last solid. Your collar's been modified. One of my tech boys tampered with a wire or two and now it's not making an important connection. It won't blow its charges, but it still has an active tracking chip. Whoever's got the remote control key will still think he's got full control of it, but that collar's just for show now."

John glared at him incredulously. "You expect me to just believe you're helping me?"

Trevor touched the side of his nose in a classic, "word to the wise" gesture and said no more leaving John to wonder if he could trust the bastard. With that, Trevor and his crew hustled out of the plane leaving John to the mercy of James Moriarty.

Chapter 8

Notes:

I had this artwork dancing around in my head as I wrote this piece.  
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Sherlock paced his small room incessantly. After they fed him, he'd been brought back and cuffed as usual. John, he thought, would be here soon!

Jim had gloated over the grainy video a bit longer replaying it for Sherlock a few more times, and he found he couldn't tear his gaze away. His heart broke again each time he thought of what Jim had torn away from John. He absorbed every nuance of John's movements as he touched the little boy's hair, as he gripped the woman's waist.

Jim hinted that his people were currently intercepting John's plane in Canada at that very moment. "He'll be here tomorrow, Sherlock. I've got a special place to keep him, just like I keep you."

"I'll do whatever you want, Jim," Sherlock said pleadingly. "Let him go and I'll help you." He began thinking of ways to convince the madman he'd behave and do his bidding.

"Do you know what your little friend has cost me, Sherlock? No, I think I'll hold on to him. You'll do so much better with an incentive, I think," Jim said. "I rather like your solider. I might have another use for him as well."

"Don't touch him!" Sherlock said desperately. "I'll solve whatever you want. Just leave him alone." He tried thinking of something, anything that might placate Jim. "The woman who murdered the strip club owner is Diane Scott, an employee. "

"Oh, very nice. See, it's already working," Jim crooned. "You just keep doing your thing, and I'll keep away from your John. I might even let you have visits." Jim seemed to find this amusing and left the room laughing into his collar like he had a delicious secret.

Sherlock remembered that Mycroft had held John's parents and sister over his head in order to get him to wear the collar and stay with him at Baker Street. At the time, Sherlock had been delighted at how effective that method worked and how quickly John had bent to his will. Sentiment, he'd thought then, such a weakness. Everyone had their pressure points and now John was his. It frightened him to think of how much panic he felt over John's well-being. Now he could understand John's dread and worry for his family. He felt the same worry for John. It humbled him to think that John might ever forgive him.

Sherlock thought about the burning hatred he felt for Moriarty and knew he wouldn't be able to _do_ it. Forgive Jim? No, never. How then, could he expect John to absolve him of his sins? Could he ask him to? Sherlock's heart hammered fiercely at the thought of meeting John's cold glare. His guilt crashed down on him. He deserved John's contempt not his forgiveness.

Jim's man escorted him back to his room. Apparently, he'd met his "doing bad things" quota for today and could rest from his efforts. The second he got to his room, he began pacing. His food tray sat untouched on the floor as he strode back and forth on his leash. Geoff came in to collect the tray and shook his head. "Eat or I strap you down and force you," he grunted at Sherlock.

"I can't eat. I'll vomit it all up. Leave it and I'll eat it later," he said huffily. "Just leave it." The man nodded and left. Sherlock knew Jim had his room under surveillance, and he couldn't flush the food down the toilet. So, he sat down and pulled the tray toward him. He shoveled food in and chewed. While he chewed, he thought about how his reunion with John might play out. He reviewed the scene over and over in his mind. He knew all of John's reactions and could predict what John might tell him in a hundred ways. But, John had always surprised him; he'd always been unpredictable and never boring. "I'm sorry," he said aloud to the empty room. "I'm so, so sorry," he said and finished his dinner.

Jim's men boarded the plane a few minutes after Trevor left and John steeled himself for what they might do to him next. Unlocking the cuffs, they hauled him off the plane, and took him to the waiting car. They drove a short distance to wait on the tarmac for their private jet to be cleared for takeoff .

A man and a woman had been sent to fetch him. Both carried pistols under their jackets. The man, a serene, muscle-bound hulk, sat in the driver's seat quietly.

The woman, a cherry haired Amazon, told him she'd have no problem twisting his dick off if he so much looked at her wrong. John believed her. So, he sat still and waited. She looked wired, and John suspected she might be on speed with the way she twitched and moved constantly. She'd fed him a peanut butter sandwich that she'd pulled out of a bag on the floor. His rumbling belly thanked her, but the dry sandwich tasted terrible and afterward sat inside him in a lump. They'd given him a bottle of water and he'd drunk it in one gulp.

"I have to piss," he said a short time later and the man opened the car door and nodded toward the outside. They expected him to just piss in the car park. So, he stood outside the car and pulled himself out. He sent a warm stream of urine onto the asphalt and thought, so much for dignity. His life in the collar with Sherlock would have at least had dignity.

After another eight hour flight John finally set foot in his native country. The private jet touched down and he felt relieved to be on solid ground again. He'd stayed awake through most of the last flight worrying about himself and wondering what Tara and Tommy were doing. He imagined them both upset about the sudden way he left them. What did they think of him now, and would Tara ever forgive him? He'd wept a few times, brushing away tears of frustration, anger and sadness. He missed them terribly. But now, he needed to stay strong in order to fight his way out and possibly get back to them. He slept during the car ride from the airport to Moriarty's warehouse and woke up just as they arrived. He found himself in an underground garage. He'd been handcuffed the whole way back. His captors pulled him out of the car and stood him on his feet. He felt exhausted and ready to collapse from stress. He hoped they just threw him in some cell and let him sleep.

His hopes flew away on hideous crow's wings, when Moriarty stepped out of the shadows and said, "Hiiiee. Welcome home."

John watched warily as the man walked closer, seemingly oblivious to the anger building up inside him. He would murder the man if he could. If he weren't flanked by Jim's muscle, he'd charge Jim and take his chances with the collar. He'd convinced himself that Trevor had told him the truth regarding his collar. He had nothing to lose either way. So, John stayed calm. With that small sliver of hope, he'd wait.

"I hope you had a nice flight," Jim said stopping a few feet away. "I'd like to tell you I'm happy to see you, but I don't think you'd believe me. We had quite a time tracking you down. I never would have thought of you as a Wild West, New Mexico kind of guy. But, Mycroft came through and did all my work for me. And, Trevor is a mate of mine, you see. He owes me."

"Go to hell," John said calmly. He was tired. He wanted to stop playing endless games.

Jim snapped his head up at that. He took one step forward and slapped John hard across the face. "You speak to me like that again, and I'll make you sorry."

John bit back another reply and forced himself to look at the tip of Jim's shoes. They were brown Oxford loafers, very expensive by the look of them. He wanted to hawk a gob of spit on them but refrained. Instead he waited.

"Take him to his room," Jim said.

His guards marched him into the warehouse and down a hallway. They opened a door and pushed him into a plain white room. He didn't know it, but it resembled Sherlock's. Cherry-hair locked a cuff around his ankle that granted him access to a bed, sink and toilet. He sighed and sank down on the hard bunk, curled up and closed his eyes. He hoped they'd let him sleep for a while.

Chapter 9

John woke up in his room disoriented and thirsty. He had a headache, probably a result of so much stress and fear. He got off the bunk almost tripping over his ankle cuff. He'd forgotten it was there and hobbled over to the sink. He gulped mouthfuls of tap water until his stomach felt full with it. Then, he lifted the lid off the toilet and let out a sigh of relief as he took a long piss. A proper toilet he thought grudgingly, but how lovely he got to share his bedroom with it. Well, beggars couldn't be choosers. He'd been held in worse dumps than this and lived to tell about it. He washed his hands and ran some water over his face. He noticed there was no mirror but he had a toothbrush and toothpaste in a cup. Why not, he concluded and brushed his teeth for something to do.

After finishing, he went back to the bed and sat on it cross legged. This new collar fit a bit more snug than the other one and he ran a finger between it and his neck. Fucking thing, he thought. He could feel the small bumps that held charges resting inside under the leather. His fingertips brushed over the embossed initials JM on the side. Now, Moriarty thought he could own him. When had he become so necessary to madmen? What was it about him that attracted the insane ones? Maybe he shouldn't delve too deep into the whys of his situation and just concentrate on getting out of it.

About an hour later a different man came in bearing a tray of food. On it was a bowl of oatmeal, two pieces of dry toast and a cup of milk. John was hungry. The last food had been the peanut butter sandwich and that felt like an eternity ago. The man glared at him, placed the tray on the ground and pushed it toward him. He looked very put out. In fact, Geoff as Sherlock had dubbed him, now had two idiots to take care of and he felt very resentful indeed of his newest babysitting duty. He grunted at John's, "Thank you," and shut the door.

John tucked in and ate everything. He didn't worry about drugging or poison food because what the hell could he do about it anyway? When he was done, he pushed the tray back toward the door and sat back on the bed to wait. They'd come for him eventually

Sherlock sat at his computer monitors and watched John. After being brought in for the day's work, he'd been greeted by the sight of his friend sitting on his bed in his room. A new camera had been installed in John's room and Sherlock could watch him in black and white as he sat on the bed. Of course Moriarty had others watching him as well, but he wanted Sherlock to be able to see John at all times through a live feed. John looked bored. Sherlock could relate.

It took all his effort to concentrate on the day's workload and not keep staring at John who simply sat on his bunk. He wanted to give Jim nothing to punish either of them for so he solved each complicated case or puzzle quickly and effectively. He tried not to think about the misery he caused to others or even the lives he might save if he did not do as he was bid. He simply performed without feeling. If he messed up, John might suffer.

But, in the afternoon, he'd been given a fairly routine case to solve. A rich woman needed to disappear from the clutches of her brutal, abusive husband. Normally, Sherlock would have no problem helping someone like her leave a bad relationship, but the woman wanted not only to escape, but to murder her husband so she could inherit all his wealth. She needed Jim's help to pull it off and not get caught. She'd promised half of her husband's considerable fortune to Jim if he could help her get away with it.

This was well within Sherlock's range of abilities. He'd give her an airtight alibi, arrange the clues so even an idiot like Anderson could decipher them, and even pin the murder on an unsuspecting household servant. Done. However, the husband was one of Mycroft's top men. Sherlock had met him once while doing a case for his brother. While he couldn't justify the man's treatment of his wife, he'd been an excellent agent. One of Mycroft's most trusted allies.

Sherlock began to suspect the wife may be lying about her husband's mistreatment to justify her own greed. The beginnings of a plan began to form and he thought he might be able to send a message to Mycroft somehow without Moriarty knowing what he was doing until it was too late. He put his plan into action, and within twenty-four hours, he knew his brother would know his exact location. He and John would both be freed.

Just as he planted the last clue that would guarantee his freedom, the door opened into John's room and Jim entered.

Chapter 10

John sat on the bed trying to doze. Because of jet lag, he really had no idea how much time had passed or even if it were night or day. He'd been fed another bland meal by his guard. He'd eaten it methodically. It wouldn't do to become weak from malnourishment. After his meal, he curled up into a ball and tried to sleep. He'd found a light switch and noticed it could be dimmed, so he put it on low setting and tried to relax.

He heard the blip of a key card just before he the door to his room opened, and Jim and his guard walked into his room. John sat up on his bed.

"Hello, John," Jim said lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet. "How was your first day?"

Remembering Jim's warning about rudeness, John just glared back. He tensed himself expecting something physical to happen.

"What do you want?" John asked simply.

"I want," Jim responded, "you to be a bit more grateful, Doctor Watson. I have, after all saved you from Mycroft Holmes. There is no telling what he had in store for you."

John huffed a breath of air and asked, "What did you do to Sherlock?"

"Ah," Jim said with a smile. "I've got Sherlock right where I want him." He looked up to where he knew a camera recorded the room, and he knew Sherlock watched. He'd even installed a microphone so the video feed would have its full, intended effect. " I've got you here, and I've got him there," he said pointing up to the blinking light in the ceiling. He can see and hear every word. I'm sure he's riveted right now."

John glanced up at the small red light he'd not noticed before. He stared grimly at it for a moment trying to fathom what Jim would want Sherlock to see. He certainly hadn't been very entertaining earlier.

Jim walked forward into the room. In his hand he held a small remote control key. "I'm sure you remember this," Jim said.

John swallowed and nodded. Apparently, Jim still believed the collar was live and that's exactly what John wanted to him to continue thinking. "I do. I'm assuming Sherlock still has one too or are you two working together now?"

"We work very well together, John. He's been helping me with soooo many projects. I've more than doubled my output. It really helps when two geniuses put their heads together. Plus, he's got such a nice firm ass," he said smiling the smile that showed way too many teeth.

John couldn't help but turn his head to the camera at that. He gave it his best, "What the hell?" look. If Jim were telling the truth, then Sherlock had spent the past six months in a version of his own private torment. It would have gone against everything in Sherlock's being to help his worst enemy. But, John had no idea what kind of monster he'd created by giving Sherlock over to Jim. He might have unleashed an ultra-potent, supervillain duo on the world. It was possible he hadn't thought the entire thing through. Perhaps he'd been too thoughtless giving Jim control of Sherlock, but he'd been distraught, dammit.

"He's been a little naughty lately, however," Jim said handing the remote key to the guard and moving closer. "Wait outside," he commanded the man. "Keep watch on the monitor and if he gives me any trouble, you know what to do."

John swallowed a growing sense of dread. Jim's movements toward him suggested he had his own plans. If Sherlock were watching this...

"Easy, John. Stand up and come closer. I want to touch you," Jim demanded suddenly turning serious.

John bit down on the inside of his cheeks to keep the angry retort he wanted to make. He kept his eyes on Jim and scooted off the bed. He stood and Jim took a few steps toward him. "Let me kiss you, John. Just relax and let it happen. I want Sherlock to see us together."

John let his eyes travel up to the ceiling and found the red light. He stared evenly at it while Jim moved closer. John made a decision then, he could passively accept Jim's advances, or he could take what control he could. He reached out to gently cup the back of Jim's head in his right hand and wound his left in the lapel Jim's expensive jacket. He brought their mouths together firmly and opened his own up to a deeper kiss. He kept his movements gentle and soft while still taking some control of the situation. Jim moaned into his mouth as he turned his head and sucked on the man's tongue.

John knew how to kiss. He put all his considerable skills into licking and caressing Jim until he got genuine, lustful responses from him. He rejoiced in knowing he could use this. He had Jim moaning and pressing them firmly together. John risked another long look up to the camera and brought his right hand down to brush over Jim's ass. He let out an appreciative moan and pushed his hardening dick into John's thigh in response. If things kept up at this pace, John would be shagging James Moriarty inside ten minutes.

"I want to fuck you," John said in Jim's ear.

Jim answered him with another brutal kiss, "I think I'll be the one doing the fucking, Johnny Boy," he responded.

John took a chance and gripped both of Jim's wrists in his hands. Jim's eyes widened and he said, "Oh, you like it rough? Very well, then. Let's play rough."

John slipped Jim's jacket off his shoulders and undid his tie. He wanted more than anything to slip the silk fabric around Jim's neck and squeeze it until he had no more breath left in his body. But he refrained and unbuttoned Jim's shirt instead. Jim shrugged out of it and John got to see him without his Westwood armor. He wasn't as muscle-bound as some, but his tightly packed frame held power. John let one hand trail down his stomach and drop to his flies. With a confident flick, he undid Jim's trousers and let them drop around his ankles. Jim elegantly stepped out of them and now wore only his expensive, silk pants. John took back Jim's wrists and pushed him onto his bunk. He pulled both of his arms over his head and bent to lick and suck a trail along his neck.

"I hope you brought lube," John growled in his ear. His own dick began to lengthen as he thought about driving it into Jim's ass. He wanted to pound the man ruthlessly for daring to take him away from his life. When he looked down at Jim's face, he saw amused and breathless desire.

"Go ahead, Johnny. I know you want to take me hard. I give you my permission to pound me into this mattress. Take all those frustrations out on me. But John, sex only. My man is watching you very closely." With that, Jim turned and nodded to the camera, a signal that he would allow John to do what he wanted as long as he kept his head and didn't get too rough. Jim wanted a good show for Sherlock and John was going to oblige.

Chapter 11

Sherlock watched Jim come into John's room with growing horror. He had promised to leave John alone. Maybe Jim had found out about the clues he'd sent Mycroft. He very stupidly assumed Jim wouldn't know about Mycroft's contacts. But the plan he'd placed in motion had already begun to play out. He couldn't turn it off now, the curtain was rising on his little play.

Sound from John's room began coming through the speakers on Sherlock's desk. He'd been set up with a Skype account in order to remotely access clients under supervision, and he'd needed speakers to communicate with others out in the world. He'd been in this warehouse so long, he'd almost forgotten what outside was like.

At first the volume had been turned down, and Sherlock scrambled to turn it up. He missed the first part of their conversation but quickly caught up.

It had all been Jim posturing in his "crime lord" mode and John responding back in moderate confusion. Sherlock sat through all the introductory banter in tense silence. His ever present guards stood by bored, and uninterested in the drama unfolding on the monitor. They didn't seem to be paying attention.

Jim advanced on John but instead of backing away, John stood fast. Sherlock caught John's determined look before he took Jim in hand and began his work. He knew John had nothing but contempt for Moriarty. There was no passion in John's eyes, in the way he gripped Jim's head or pulled him in for a kiss. John's thoroughness, his methodical kissing, and his intensity all told Sherlock of his intent. He had a plan.

When John took hold of Jim's wrists in a display of dominance, Sherlock felt no jealously or shock, but a fierce joy. John intended to fight back. Jim's compliance told Sherlock he found John's aggressiveness arousing. Jim preferred the novel, the unique and John seemed to be delivering that in spades. John undressed him, took off Jim's tie and trousers, and pushed the man back on the bed. Sherlock did feel a stab of jealously then. Of all the wretched humans on planet Earth, Jim Moriarty would never deserve the honor John bestowed on him at this moment. To have John in his arms, to have John kissing and pressing himself on top….Sherlock ground his teeth at the thought of the incredible bliss Jim must be feeling at John's hands. So unfair!

But, he brought his thoughts back to John's look at the camera before he'd begun his plundering of Jim's body. Sherlock observed the pliant way Jim moved with pleasure under John. John remained mostly dressed and had only undone the buttons of his jeans to free his dick. Anyone else monitoring the pair, and Sherlock knew others watched, would only see two beings caught up in sexual ecstasy. However, Sherlock saw something else. He always saw. In his left hand, John still clutched Jim's silk tie. He'd removed it easily and let it flutter to his side but kept part of it wrapped in is palm.

Sherlock had also noticed John's collar, just like his own, and knew it meant Jim could force John to do anything he wanted. What then did John intend to do? Sherlock saw the tension in John's shoulders as he readied himself to do something. Then, John reached around to turn Jim over so he was face down on the bed. He hooked his thumbs into Jim's pants and pulled them down over his ass, along his thighs and dropped to his ankles. Jim kicked them off with a wicked chuckle.

"I see you may get your wish, Johnny," he said. "Go ahead." Jim had been gripping a bottle of lube in one hand. He must have had it in his jacket pocket and taken it out before John relieved him of it. He handed it to John and Sherlock heard the "pop" of the cap flipping up. John used some to coat himself and rubbed his hand up and down preparing himself. Sherlock noticed he didn't seem interested in prepping Jim first, and Jim seemed unfazed by any imminent pain. "Do it," he commanded.

John lined himself up with Jim's opening and began pushing himself in. He paused briefly allowing Jim to adjust to him and continued gliding in and out establishing a punishing rhythm. Jim let out a series of moans as John sped up.

Then, John leaned forward laying himself along Jim's back. One of his arms snaked around Jim's neck so it rested in the crook of his elbow, and the other he used to press along his chest. To any outside view, John's embrace might be misconstrued as a passionate way to stabilize their sexual position, but Sherlock could see John intentionally kept his left arm out of view of the camera. The tension in John's shoulders told Sherlock he had Jim in a choke hold and his right hand came up to cover Jim's mouth. Since Jim's face was away from the camera, his struggles looked just like the throes of passion. John pressed tighter and Jim began to resist in earnest.

No one came into the room to stop John, and Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. If John weren't careful, his captors would blow John's collar right in front of him and he'd watch his friend bleed out.

Sherlock's hands gripped the desk in front of him. Anyone watching might suspect his wide-eyed expression simply came from seeing the man he loved fucking his worst enemy. But soon, Jim's movements slowed and stopped. Jim was either dead or unconscious. Sherlock voted for dead.

John kept pounding Jim's ass until he thrust forward one final time and let out a sigh of relief. He pulled out, wiped himself off on his bed sheet and stood up. Jim still lay face down on the bed. Again, Sherlock thought, he could be recovering from post orgasmic bliss. John took a second to put himself back into his pants and button up his jeans. He rolled Jim over exposing the fact that he was obviously not moving.

Ten seconds later, the door opened and Geoff came into the room. He held the collar's key out in front of him and pushed the button he thought would explode the charges. His face, a scrunched up mess of furious red, reflected his terrified confusion. His boss lie across the bed, possibly dead, and the fucking button didn't appear to do a damn thing when he pressed it over and over.

It didn't take long for Geoff, in his terrified panic, to begin pressing other buttons in an effort to find the one that would blow the charges. If his boss woke up and found out he'd not done his job, he'd be a dead man. Sherlock knew the moment the collar's clasp released itself because John's face collapsed with relief. Somehow, John had known the collar wouldn't blow!

He pulled the collar off and placed it around Jim's neck Geoff immediately stopped pushing buttons on the remote and looked aghast at John. Sherlock let out a short laugh and clapped his hand over his mouth. He loved John more than ever at this moment. His brave, smart John. He'd give him anything in the world he asked for.

Sherlock hid his joy and braced himself for what might happen next. He moved his body to cover the monitor in front of him. He didn't want the men standing guard in his room to get wind of John's attempted escape.

Sherlock watched as Geoff finally decided to take charge of the situation and rush John. Sherlock had seen John take down men twice his size and watched with growing hope and admiration as John used a classic judo move to subdue the overwhelmed Geoff. He wrapped Jim's tie around the man's neck and used it like a garrote to strangle him into unconsciousness. He finally fell limp on the floor, and John pawed through his pockets until he found a key ring. On it was the key he wanted, and he used it to unlock the cuff. He picked up the collar's remote and put it in his pocket. Insurance?

Geoff had left the door open, thankfully, and John slipped out of his room. Sherlock sat back stunned. John had escaped.

Chapter 12

John moved quickly after unlocking himself from the cuff. He may have only moments before another person found out what he'd done. He poked his head outside his door and looked both ways before stepping out. He saw no one. The big lug he'd just taken out might have been Jim's only backup. The bastard had been so self-confident about the control the collar gave him, he'd had only one man looking out for him. Idiot, John thought channeling Sherlock for a moment. He didn't believe he'd killed either man. He knew enough about the human body to know how much pressure to apply to achieve unconsciousness. With everything else he'd done lately, he didn't want to add murder to the burdens he carried around with him.

He tried to remember which way he'd been brought in yesterday and turned left. The hallway to the right ended in a wall,so there was no use going that way. He stayed low and moved as fast as he could. He passed closed and locked doors along the way, so he continued until he came to an open archway. He moved into a room with three solid walls and one glass, two-way mirror, and paused a moment to suss out the situation before continuing on.

John inhaled sharply when he recognized who was in the room on the other side of the glass. Sherlock sat in a chair next to some computer monitors. John saw with some trepidation one of the monitors had the scene of his recently vacated room with Geoff on the floor and Jim strewn across the bed. Both still lie where he left them and that meant he had a bit more time before all shit broke loose.

Sherlock wore a collar just like the one he'd shed, and when he saw it, he felt something inside him twist in shame. Sherlock hadn't raised an alarm although he'd obviously see John take Moriarty down. Whatever the reason he'd been working with Jim, he'd done it because he feared for his own skin. Or perhaps, he'd feared for someone else's, maybe even John himself. Sherlock wasn't watching the monitor to his room anymore, but staring through the two-way mirror as if he were looking right into his John's eyes. Did he know John was there? John felt a tug at his heart then. After all that had happened to him, he still believed Sherlock had a good soul.

The detective had lost his way after one moment of panic at a public swimming pool. He'd solved his perceived dilemma of losing John using the only tool he had at his disposal, his brother. But, in the long run could this have worked out any differently? The second he'd cast his lot with Sherlock, his life had been absorbed into the world of mystery, revenge and elation all rolled into one spectacular package.

John had sudden doubt about leaving him to stay in Moriarty's grip. What would they do to him if John got away? Sherlock turned his head to look over his shoulder and John noticed the two guards that stood at the door to the room. Sherlock knew he was on the other side of the mirrored glass. He'd deduced it, and as usual was correct.

Sherlock wouldn't be going anywhere with those two in the room. Then, John got an idea. What if the remote control in his hand released Sherlock's collar as well? Why not? Would each collar be linked to a different frequency, or would Moriarty have a key that controlled all his pets at once. John put his money on the "one key" theory. He had only one way to test his idea. He tried pointing the key at Sherlock's collar and pushing the release button.

He'd seen the security guard push the button on the right viscously when he thought it would cause John's collar to explode, so he pushed the button on the far left. Success. He saw Sherlock's eyes widen as he realized his collar's clasp had disengaged and he quietly removed it and held it in his hands. His eyes met John's through glass and he lifted one corner of his mouth in a genuine, Sherlock smile. John thought he saw a look of absolute gratefulness pass over the detective's face. John felt a return smile slide over his own lips. Then, he saw the look in Sherlock's eyes change from dumbstruck gratitude to insidious revenge. Sherlock had murder in those sea-gray eyes now. Without the threat of the collar, John knew Sherlock could overpower the two guards in the room easily enough. With the burning press of his conscious somewhat relieved by releasing the collar, John decided to get out while he could.

John left Sherlock to formulate his plan of escape, while he went back into the hallway and looked for another exit. One door caught his eye as being heavier than the others. Ah, an exterior door, he thought. Here was his exit. He tried it and found it unlocked. Bright light flooded his vision as the afternoon sun streamed into the hallway. Would it be this easy? Would no one else try to stop him?

He heard shouts behind him. He decided to risk it and make a dash for outside. The shouts meant that either Sherlock had made his move and tried to overpower his guards, or someone had found Jim's inert body. Either way, it wasn't John's problem. It most certainly was _not_ John's problem. It was not. John hesitated a moment. He could see freedom in a short flight of stairs that lead to an asphalt covered car park and a busy street just beyond. People! Freedom.

But Sherlock, possibly fighting for his life, lie behind him. John closed his eyes and waited for clarity. Could he live with himself if he left Sherlock behind? If they didn't kill him, they would continue to use him. Unspeakable evil would continue unabated. John would never be rid of the constant threat of James Moriarty, and Mycroft would continue to hunt him down. Clarity finally arrived in the form of reason. John had made his decision, he'd go back.

Chapter 13

Sherlock's decision came quickly after he held the collar in his hands. A sharp spike of hope flew through him when he heard the collar's clasp let go. He pulled off the horrible thing. John had forgiven him! If not outright forgiveness, then he maybe he felt Sherlock's penance had ended. He'd been Jim's slave for six months and had felt every second of his forced captivity keenly. He understood the pain he'd caused John by trying to force him to stay with him. It wasn't right to possess him no matter how much he wanted to. He understood two things. One, he'd been an ass of epic proportions, and two, John far surpassed him in kindness. No matter how much he might value his own intellect, John's loyalty and forgiveness made him the better human being.

His John had outwitted Mycroft, Moriarty and even his own superior intellect. The hidden quality of uniqueness buried within John shone brightest when faced with overwhelming odds. He was both a soldier and healer; a contradiction of characters who blended perfectly in one short, solid, steadfast body. Sherlock could no more possess John than he could the steady rain or shinning sun. He felt his shame resonate so deep, his bones ached with it. He vowed he would never put his friend, he hoped with all his heart they could still be friends, through anything like that again.

Sherlock knew what he had to do, but he paused a moment. One of the screens in front of him still showed the living room of the elegant house of the woman he was supposed to help. After watching John escape, he'd forgotten all about her and her murderous plot. However, part one of his plan had already played out. His plan to contact Mycroft subversively depended upon the wife making a very important phone call. He told the wife to call her husband's employer (Mycroft's people) and tell him he'd been delayed on his return trip from a conference he'd been attending.

This was supposed to help her set up an alibi. Sherlock had made sure the wording of the wife's message, innocent sounding to most, would alert Mycroft's people. He told her she had to repeat the message exactly or it would implicate her in his murder. Embedded in the message was a simple code that would clue them in where Sherlock was being kept. The Holmes boys had developed this code as means to speak to each other behind their parent's back when they were young, and was unique to them alone. Mycroft would know what it meant.

She had done her part flawlessly and the message had been sent. Fortunately for Mycroft's man, the second part of the plan hadn't gone through yet. If he acted quickly enough, his agent wouldn't have to die. He had acted very quickly.

The woman on his screen seemed to hear a knock on her door. She went to open it and one of Mycroft's agent's entered. Sherlock turned up the sound on his screen and heard the man say, "It's raining in June this year."

"What?" the woman asked.

The agent said, "That wasn't for you. But this is," he said producing a pair of handcuffs. "You're under arrest, ma'am. You have the right to …." And Sherlock tuned out the rest. Good, she got what she deserved.

According to the man's coded response, Mycroft would be at Moriarty's compound in a less than an hour. He had to get out of this room and assist John.

John reluctantly left the beckoning call of freedom to go back down the hallway to find Sherlock. The shouts he'd heard grew louder, and against all instincts, he ran toward them.

John kept as low as he could until he found an open doorway. Inside, he saw the bank of computers Sherlock had been sitting in front of and the two-way mirror. He did a quick sweep of the room and found the two guards lying near the entrance. One had blood running from his temple but John could see them both still breathing. He didn't see Sherlock anywhere. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock, he knew, stood behind him.

"John," he said. "Are you all right?"

John turned to face the man. Sherlock had a large bruise starting to form around his eye. "Took care of the guards?"

"Yes," he said smiling. "Thank you for," he waved vaguely at his neck area.

John nodded and smiled back. "We can discuss it later. Right now…" but John didn't finish that thought because another voice interrupted him.

"Yes, thank you Johnny Boy. You are going to prove to be one of my best investments yet," James Moriarty said. He stood in the hallway just outside of the computer room. He held a pistol in his hands. "And, I will punish you for nearly choking me out. Next time you want to try a little breathplay, I'm going to have to insist on a safeword."

John rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the comment and Sherlock half-grinned at him. If he weren't so furious with the detective, John might almost believe they were friends again. Almost, if he could even begin to forgive the all the shit of the last six months. But, he snapped back to the reality of his situation. He'd been seconds away from getting free, getting some semblance of his life back, and now he seemed to be right back over the fire, twisting and turning in the flames.

"Get in there, both of you," Jim said all levity gone from his voice. "It seems everyone in my employ is lying down on the job. I guess I have to do the hard part myself."

Chapter Management

Chapter 14

Jim used his gun to wave them into the room. John gave Sherlock a wary look. In the old days, Sherlock and John had several wordless techniques they used to disarm criminals. They only needed a nod or a flick of a finger and the other would know exactly what to do. The partners had a perfect shorthand only they understood. But this current situation had John worrying about whether or not they still had that perfect connection. If John gave his usual sign, would Sherlock remember or even want to trust him? John wasn't sure.

"Get in," Jim said.

John moved into the room first and Sherlock followed. They turned to face their worst enemy, and wondered if this might finally be the moment Jim snapped and shot them both. Then, like a drowning man finding a plank of wood in a vast ocean, he saw the collar around Jim's neck. He still had the remote control key in his pocket and he pulled it out. Jim had been unconscious when the security guard had tried using it on John. Jim didn't know it wouldn't work!

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out so Moriarty could see his thumb placed over the discharge button.

"Ah," Jim said putting his hand up to touch his collar. "I don't know how you managed this but well done, you. So it's a standoff?"

Sherlock smirked and looked sideways at John. This glorious man continued to surprise him. His admiration rose again when he saw the resolute look on the soldier's face. "If I push this button, you'll be done, Jimmy Boy," John said keeping his anger burning low. You'll only have time to shoot one of us before I push this button. Which one of us do you hate more?"

"If I shoot you, it will kill Sherlock, too. In fact, it would be worth it to know he'd pick up the gun and follow right along after. Isn't that right, Darling?" Jim asked looking directly at Sherlock who turned away from Jim's gaze. The truth of that statement hung in the room for all to see.

"So we all die? Is that how you want to end this?" John asked cocking his head to the side.

Sherlock saw the resolution in John's face. He'd take no more shit from Moriarty today or ever again. John was simply done with it all. Sherlock looked back at John and said, "Give me the remote and leave before anyone else wakes up. I'll say with him. This is between Jim and I anyway." He held out his hand for the key. He'd seen the video feed and knew the key didn't work on that collar. They might not have much longer before Jim put two and two together and figured out why John was still alive and he was wearing the collar. He might even guess the thing no longer worked.

John's face was unreadable as he looked at him.

"Oh, I'll shoot him if he tries to leave," Jim said. "This involves all of us. You don't get to go anywhere, Johnnnny Boy."

"He's right. This ends now," John said shaking his head.

"Get over by the monitors," Jim ordered them. "Get away from the door."

Sherlock stepped behind John and moved toward the chair he'd been sitting on earlier. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his old collar lying on the seat where he'd left it. He waited until John began to move over toward him and dipped down slightly to pick the collar up when Jim's attention was diverted. He shoved it up his sleeve. As far as he knew, this collar still held live charges and would blow if John pressed the button. It wasn't much, but it was their only real weapon.

Sherlock knew Mycroft would arrive at any moment but had no idea if one of Jim's men would wake up to help before then. In fact, Jim stepped over to one of the prostrate guards and kicked him with his foot. As he looked down at his henchman, Sherlock caught John's eye and let a bit of the collar show in the palm of his hand. John nodded in understanding and smiled one of his hard smiles. They were on the same page. At least some of their former wordless communication abilities still worked. For that, Sherlock felt a warm rush. It was something they hadn't lost, and that meant a great deal to him.

Whatever Sherlock had done to the man, he stayed down even after Jim kicked him several times. So did the other one. Jim, furious at their apparent insubordination, screamed in frustration, "Get up you sodden bastards!" John could hear the frustration and rising panic in his voice. If they didn't get this situation under control immediately, Jim just might snap and pull the proverbial trigger. However, when John saw the collar sticking out of Sherlock's sleeve he had an idea.

"Let me look at him," John suggested moving toward the bodies. "I'm a doctor." That line usually acted like a calming agent to most people who stood aside and let him do his job when he said those words. He hoped it might have the same effect on Jim.

Jim raised the pistol to John's chest and gave him a warning look. John stepped back. Maybe not, he thought.

Then one of the prostrate men began to stir. Jim began prodding him with his foot yelling, "Get up you great lug. Get up!" The man groaned and tried to sit up. He put a hand under him and tried to push himself into sitting position. In his disorientation, he grabbed Jim's trouser leg and used it to steady himself. John could tell the signs of a concussion when he saw them, and he knew the man felt dizzy and possibly nauseous. What the hell had Sherlock done to him? he thought wonderingly.

The man groaned and wrapped a meaty arm around Jim's leg and attempted to use it to climb to his feet. This pulled Jim forward and upset his balance. Sherlock saw this and moved toward Jim. At the same time, John waved his arms in a distracting gesture to help keep Jim's attention on him and this allowed Sherlock to get very close to Jim's back. The groaning man on the floor took that moment to grip harder and Sherlock saw a chance.

He dropped the collar out of his sleeve and let it fall into the palm of his hand. Then, he let it fall again and caught it between his forefinger and thumb. He held it in both hands and flung it so it landed around Jim's neck. It didn't wrap completely around, but instead sat along the back of his neck and and along one shoulder. Good enough.

John pushed the critical button and ducked at the same time. The result happened almost instantly. The small charges blew and Jim's blood splattered all over the front of Sherlock's shirt and face.

John felt the breeze of a bullet pass by his ear. He heard the pistol's sharp retort almost simultaneously. Jim's face stretched into a surprised "O" and his knees buckled. He fell forward neck still spurting blood, and John felt both horrified and relieved when he landed face first on the floor.

"Let's go!" Sherlock urged snapping him out of a shocked trance. He'd been just about to kneel down and check for a pulse, but Sherlock grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him toward the door.

"Gun," John said stopping. The guard sat near Jim's legs still struggling to stand but having considerable trouble. John grabbed the pistol from Jim death grip and shoved the man back down. Once again, Sherlock grabbed his shirt and heaved him toward the door. They made it down the hallway at a run with John checking over his shoulder looking for Jim's men. Had he been dead? He didn't know for sure. The collar may have only wounded him.

John pulled open the outside door and fled down the stairs. John ran ahead hoping to God Sherlock decided to follow. Sherlock had followed closely behind him. When they reached the bottom of the steps, John stopped. Three, nondescript sedans and one SUV had pulled into the car park directly in front of them.

Men and women emerged quickly and pointed very serious looking weapons at John.

"John Watson! You are under arrest," a voice shouted at them. "Drop your weapon and put your hands up."

"John, put down the gun," Sherlock said urgently. John could hear panic in his voice. "Those are Mycroft's men. Just trust me, I'll get you out of this.."

"Trust you?" John asked incredulously. "You are what got me into this mess," John said with a snarl. "You are what caused all this in the first place."

It seemed John still had some trust issues, Sherlock thought. "John. I will handle this if you'll just calm down and give me the gun. Or better yet, throw it down on the ground. Just that. I will not let you down again." Sherlock pleaded with him urging him with his eyes, with his whole being to listen and do what he as he was commanded this one time. He could not imagine going through six months of torture just to lose John now.

John looked at the agents collected in front of him. He sighed and shook his head. "All right, Sherlock. I trust you." He put the safety on and tossed the weapon on the ground.

"Get on your knees, Dr. Watson," the voice commanded and this time John recognized the voice of Mycroft Holmes.

Chapter 15

John had often heard the quaint adage, "His life flashed before his eyes," and had never really believed it. A person's life could not actually flash from birth to death in a matter of seconds. However, he now saw in his mind's eye, flickering pictures of Tara and Tommy. He saw them laughing around the dinner table; Tommy playing Legos with him on the floor of Tara's cosy house; his quirky patients at the Alamogordo clinic, and even a stray cat that hung around his terrible little apartment. He'd almost decided to adopt the ginger cat, but was now glad he hadn't. It would be one more living being that would miss him and wonder what had become of him.

It all passed hauntingly across his memory. He ached to go back. His life, no matter how much Sherlock might wish it otherwise, now firmly rested in Mycroft's iron grip. He held no hope for himself. He cast one last, grim glance back at Sherlock's stricken face and sank to his knees.

Things happened quickly after that. Two men in dark suits, perfect clones of the men who'd taken him off the street months ago, picked him up and patted him down. They groped around in his pockets, took his wallet (which Moriarty had let him keep) and some loose change. He they even pried between his legs and felt up and down his jean-covered legs looking for weapons. One man yanked his arms roughly together and handcuffed his hands behind his back. Obviously, they were taking no chances with him. He was hustled into the back of the SUV and other agents ushered Sherlock into one of the sedans. Separating them? Not a good sign, John thought.

Mycroft slid into the back seat next to John who found it very uncomfortable to sit in handcuffs. Mycroft stared at the back of the driver's head and kept quiet for the first fifteen minutes of the ride. John didn't feel like speaking either. He concentrated on taking even breaths and trying to still his triple-hammering heart. Adrenaline coursed through him. His flight response wanted him to lash out, fight this man and run away. But, he had nowhere to go. It left him feeling jittery and uneven.

Finally, Mycroft took in a breath and spoke, "John," he began. "I wanted to speak to you first before I debriefed Sherlock."

"Fuck you," John responded as nonchalantly as he could. Let him chew on that.

Mycroft fell silent for another few minutes before trying again. "We've been trying to extradite Sherlock for the past six months. He's been carefully hidden from me and working for Moriarty. He's been helping him, and I believe I know why. I understand my brother's motives, but I do not understand yours."

"Mine?" John asked. "I never wanted any part of this. I ran away as far as I could, and your bloody cameras found me," John shouted at the man.

"You could have left me alone and I'd have been happy."

"I needed you, John," Mycroft said unhappily. "My team, my cameras, my years of experience led to nothing. I couldn't find him, John!" Mycroft said showing more emotion than John had ever seen him display before. "We knew Moriarty had him when we looked at the footage from outside the flat the day you left. He got into a car with that madman, they drove away and disappeared. But, we heard nothing. No ransom, no threats, nothing. I thought the worst until…"

"Until what?" John asked gruffly.

"Until we began hearing reports about Moriarty's network getting stronger, more powerful than he'd ever been before. I knew he'd coerced Sherlock into helping him, and frankly I thought it was because of you. I thought he had captured you and threatened to hurt you to get him to comply."

"But, I got away," John said remembering happily how he had beat both Holmes brothers if even for a short while.

"I searched the globe to find you. You did an alarmingly good job evading me and my resources for a long time. But, eventually I found you. I sent a team in to retrieve you. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong man."

"Yeah," John grunted. "Bastard, Trevor,"

"Indeed," Mycroft said disgruntled. "Because his methods are not sanctioned by the British government, I paid him an exorbitant amount out of pocket to bring you back. He double crossed me."

"Well, I guess that how the shit lands sometimes," John said shifting around to find a comfortable way to accommodate the pressure on his shoulder from his position.

"Well, I've rectified the situation with Trevor. He and his men are being held in a very nasty South American prison. He'll be there a long time with no hope of parole."

John didn't know how to feel about that. Trevor's many contradictions played havoc on a basically good morality like John's. The mercenary had helped to save him from Moriarty. All the double crossing, gun for hire bullshit just wasn't what John wanted in his life. If Trevor ended his days in a foul prison cell for his choices, then John couldn't find much sympathy. He had a feeling his own days might be much the same with only slightly better food and accommodations.

"What do you want from me? Now that you've got your brother back, you could just let me go. Couldn't you Mycroft?" John asked him pointedly.

"I know you handed Sherlock over to Moriarty, John. I know you left him there at the flat. I'd like to kill you for that," Mycroft said flatly.

John felt his heart speed up again. There were at least two witness in the car right now, but these were trained agents and were sworn to secrecy. What happened in the back of black, government SUV's, probably stayed in the back of black, government SUVs, he thought.

"If that's what you need to do, put your gun at the back of my head at base of my neck and make it a clean shot," John said steadily. "You might want pull over and do it in some side alley to keep the blood and brains off your suit."

If these were his final moments, he'd leave the world with some dignity. One of the men in the front seat turned around at those words and looked at him. John couldn't make out an expression behind the sunglasses but he thought he saw a bit of raised eyebrow. The man turned back around, eyes forward.

"I said I'd like to kill you. But, I'm afraid I'd lose my brother if I did. So, you'll live a while longer."

"Where are we going?" John asked feeling as if he already knew the answer.

"Why, home Dr. Watson. To Baker Street," Mycroft replied.

Chapter 16

John despaired. "Home? Baker Street is not my home any longer, Mycroft. You made sure of that. I don't know what you expect from me now."

"I expect for you to keep to our arrangement, John."

"Do you really think that's what Sherlock wants? I left him to Moriarty. He probably hates me now, and I wouldn't blame him. I don't believe he would trust me anyway." John looked hopelessly out the car's window. London had turned moody and sullen. Full, low clouds threatened to spill a heavy downpour any moment. It rarely rained in New Mexico. Even in the winter the sun shone. Here, it already felt like winter. They fell silent and drove for almost two hours without speaking. The famous London traffic held them up most of the way.

They'd finally reached the heart of London when Mycroft said, "No, I don't trust you. But, I know Sherlock, and he does not hate you. Nor will he ever, I'm afraid. He's in love with you, and once he gets an idea like that into his head, it will never leave him. I would know."

"Would you?" John asked. "Because I don't think you can comprehend the idea of love, Mycroft," John said heatedly.

"I love him too," Mycroft said softly. "I've always been there for him and, he doesn't turn to me anymore. He turns to you, John. Even when you left him, he still turned to you. He needs you or he won't survive."

"You can't pin that on me. I have to have a life of my own or_ I_ won't survive. I can't be his appendage. I thought I could be his partner."

"You still can be."

"How?" John asked. But Mycroft's phone buzzed and he looked down at it.

"Sherlock. How did you get this number? Never mind. What?" he asked with irritation.

Mycroft became suddenly very still and listened intently to the voice on the other end. "No, Sherlock you musn't. That is never the answer."

"What?" John couldn't help but ask.

"St. Barts, driver now," Mycroft barked. "He's on the roof, John."

"Why is he on the roof?" John asked baffled at the sudden turn of events.

"He's escaped his drivers, stolen a phone and…" Mycroft couldn't finish his sentence. His face appeared ashen and all the will seemed drained from his body. "He's…"

"Let me speak to him," John demanded feeling the bottom fall out of his stomach. It sounded like, no, but it sounded like he might be about to…jump.

Mycroft appeared to weigh the decision for a moment and then put the phone up to John's ear. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"John, this is goodbye," Sherlock's distinctive voice came through the line. He sounded clear and determined, and that scared John the most. "I've decided to take myself out of the equation permanently. If I'm gone, there'll be no reason to hold you. You can go back to your new family."

"No, I know you only wanted me to stay with you. I know we can work this out. Please don't…"

"John, I can't begin to make up for my abhorrent behavior, but I can give you back your happiness. Go back to the States, to her." John could hear a hitch in Sherlock's breathing. The detective's voice, low and gravelly, held so much sorrow and remorse. If Sherlock were acting as he done so many times, John couldn't tell now. "I'm truly sorry for hurting you and being so possessive. You deserve to live your life your way, and I'm going to give that to you. So, goodbye."

"Driver!" Mycroft nearly screamed. "Get there now!" The car actually sped up and wove in and out of traffic. John, who hadn't put on a seatbelt, got tossed around and tried to keep upright. Fortunately, they were only a few minutes away from the hospital. The driver pulled up to the curb and Mycroft jumped out. He still held the phone in his hands and kept trying to talk to his brother.

John got out a little slower due to having his hands behind his back and tried to scan the roof line for Sherlock's form. He hoped to god they were not too late.

"There," he shouted to Mycroft and pointed with his chin. "He's there."

They both saw the tall, slim figure of Sherlock on the rooftop. He still wore the pair of grey sweats and pullover shirt he'd been wearing as Moriarty's prisoner. His wild curls waved in the bristly, Autumn breeze. John felt cold raindrops hit his face as he looked up at his friend.

"No," John whispered as the figure stepped close to the edge, balanced a moment then disappeared over the edge. John's knees buckled. "No, Sherlock," he moaned to no one and sank to the pavement.

One of the men stood over him and abruptly hauled him to his feet. Together they all rushed around to the side of the building where Sherlock had fallen. Mycroft had run ahead the minute he saw Sherlock step to the edge. When they turned the corner, they saw him bent over a body lying on the sidewalk. He was frantically checking vital signs. One of the agents began speaking into his phone and John heard him calling for backup. The other agent rushed into Barts to get help.

John already knew that if Sherlock fell from that height, he'd be dead. His mind only registered the facts: too great a height, too solid an impact surface, too much blood. Then, it hit him, Sherlock had sacrificed himself give John his freedom.

A gurney rushed by carried along by several staff from Barts. Odd, his mind registered, he didn't recognize any of them. He'd been quite familiar with the staff members at Barts and there were bound to be a few turnovers during his six month stay in the States, but all of them?

The crew gently pushed Mycroft aside and lifted Sherlock onto the gurney. Odd again, they weren't using the proper lifting method for a possible neck and back injury, nor were they using a backboard. Perhaps they'd ascertained his death already. Then again, John's mind didn't seem to be working properly.

As the emergency crew whisked by on its way into the hospital, a long, slender hand fell from the gurney and one of the attendants put it back but not before… John must be imagining it, hoping for it possibly, but the fingers had curled.

John turned back to find Mycroft sitting on the sidewalk near the pool of blood that had come from the back of his brother's head. "No pulse," he said weakly. "He's gone, John."

John didn't know what to think. He looked down at Mycroft who sat stunned. The man had lost the only person in the world he truly loved and John couldn't think of anything to say in the way of comfort. It chose that moment to begin pouring and the slick pool of blood began washing away.

Chapter 17: Epilogue

John sat in an comfortable rocker watching a terrible kid's show called, Blue's Clues. In it, a"detective" named Steve and a two-dimensional dog named Blue, solved puzzles using blue paw prints. Tommy, who had just turned six, loved this show. John hated it. What kind of observational skills were children expected to learn when they gave away the answers to the puzzles and put a great big paw print on everything you were supposed to notice? Tommy shouted along with the studio audience.

"Right," John said and pushed the off switch on the remote control. "We are going out, Tom, my boy."

Tommy looked around at him pouting. The action reminded him so much of Sherlock that he smiled at the memory. But, that's my favorite show, John."

"Nope. No more of this hopeless drivel. I am going to teach you how to solve a puzzle the right way."

Tommy looked up hopefully at that. "What puzzle, John?" he asked and John saw so much of his mother looking out from his blue eyes it warmed his heart.

"Yes, what puzzle?" Tara came into the living room drying her hands on a dishtowel. And, since you've turned off his entertainment, you'll have to play with him while I finish doing dishes."

John smiled. "I'd love to. In fact," he turned back to Tommy. "I heard your friend Connor has lost his favorite Batman action figure. Why don't we invite him to come over and let's get to the bottom of this mystery?" He picked up Tommy and tucked him under his arm like an old duffle bag and carried him outside. Tommy giggled the entire time.

Connor lived two houses down and John set the boy down gently. "Lead the way, Tom." John grinned as the little blond boy rushed off to see if his friend could come out to play. John followed along after.

He'd been back in the states for two months under his assumed identity of Jonathan Tennant. Tara, none the wiser, accepted him back with open arms. In fact she and Tommy had met him at the airport when he arrived back with smiles, hugs and gifts. Tommy had drawn him several pictures, all of them of the three of them holding hands, and had even made him a Lego version of a Transformer.

As Sherlock assumed he would, Mycroft cut him loose. He'd unlocked John's cuffs and told him to leave the country. One of the agents handed him five thousand pounds in cash and his wallet. He'd called Tara and she'd sent him his fake passport. She'd been so happy to hear from him she'd wept when she heard his voice

She'd been worried almost non-stop since they'd taken him away. He had to admit, he'd felt a perfect warmth at her reaction. He half suspected she might have moved on already and forgotten him. She hadn't and John wanted nothing more than to fold himself back into her arms. He wanted to hug Tommy and play endless Legos with him.

Apparently, Sherlock's body had been sent into the crematorium prematurely through some epic mix up. Molly Hooper apologized profoundly and said she thought he'd been explicit about his wishes after death. Mycroft was furious and called for her immediate termination. But, through some miracle, she kept her job.

They held a memorial service for an urn full of ashes. Mycroft and Sherlock's parents attended as did Mrs. Hudson and John. They'd all stood around the sad little urn. Mycroft's red rimmed eyes and blank expression suggested he had almost no life left in him at all. His brother's death had taken everything away from him. He couldn't even exact revenge against Moriarty as they never recovered his body.

John didn't see any other family or friends. What a shame, John thought, he'd helped so many people and this is how he'd been remembered by them. His passport arrived and he boarded the plane back to the States with only the briefest tug of remorse because he knew a secret. Sherlock wasn't dead.

At the airport, John picked up his small carry-on bag and made his way to the boarding line. He turned to give London Heathrow Airport one last look before he left it. If he had his way, he wouldn't be back for a long time. As he did, he saw a tall figure duck behind a pillar just a bit too late. The distinctive curls were gone and pair of sunglasses tried to hide the Verdi-green eyes, but John knew exactly who had come to see him off. Fine, as long as man didn't try to stop him or worse get on the plane with him, he would just pretend he didn't see him.

John got on the plane.


End file.
